


Luncheon with Hermione

by Guardian_Kysra



Series: Keeping Up With the Grangers [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also lots of Muggle field trips, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Attraction, Burgeoning Romance, Complicated Relationships, Draco doesn't help her at all either, Draco has a thing about table settings and cutlery, Draco is a total sports fiend, Draco is making lots of decisions, Draco is repressed but, EWE, F/M, Food, Gen, HEA, Hagrid is the BEST friend, Harry is a Good Friend, Hermione has a thing about Draco's hands, Hermione is a total feminist, Hermione is cool with this, Hermione is repressed x 1000, Hermione starts out strong then life gets the best of her, Hermione still holds her own against him, Hermione's aunts are just EXTRA, MIND THE CHANGED RATING, Mentions of Anxiety, Mentions of Masturbation, Mentions of PTSD, Mr. Granger likes to get dirty, Mr. and Mrs. Granger are still sickeningly mushy with each other, Nagini has a sort of cameo, Nana needs more screen time, Not just the kinky bedroom kind, Pining, So is her Nana, Soft romantic smut, This helps her not at all though, Virgin Hermione Granger, Yes Hagrid is in this one!, Yup there is NOW SMUT, allusions to past parental abuse, baby witch alert!, cessation of libido, crazy Lucius, it's not my jam, love doesn't conquer all but it's still worth it, mental illness doesn't go away just because you're falling in love, mentions of Alzheimers, mentions of depression, mentions of past torture and fear of rape, no infidelity, no rape is committed, parental abandonment, past bullying, ron is a good friend, set backs and other obstacles, sex positive Hermione Granger, sexual thought and feelings, she's gonna be okay, slow slow burn, smart people being emotionally stupid, so much food, some non-destructive drunken behavior, ssssshhhhh he doesn't know yet!, tons of UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 159,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21625912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Kysra/pseuds/Guardian_Kysra
Summary: He glances at the boxy too-uniform numbers flashing on the face of Richard’s radio.   It’s nearly noon, and he should be getting ready to leave; but there is still a harsh tension in his shoulders and neck that he wants to work out before Hermione finds him.It is, after all, Tuesday; and while his Tuesdays were designated ‘tea with Helen’ days previously, they are now ‘lunch with Granger’ days, ever since the chance meet-up with the Weasel’s wife and the insufferable swot herself.
Relationships: . . . more coming, Blaise Zabini & Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfo & Mr. Granger, Draco Malfoy & Astoria Greengrass, Draco Malfoy & Narcissa Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Everyone, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger & Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger & OFCs, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermoine Granger & Mr. Granger & Mrs. Granger, Mrs. Granger & Draco Malfoy, Mrs. Granger & OFCs, Mrs. Granger / Mr. Granger, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley/OFC
Series: Keeping Up With the Grangers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534829
Comments: 756
Kudos: 742





	1. Library Fare

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again everyone! I hope your November was fabulous and I want to wish a belated Happy Thanksgiving to everyone who celebrated. I somehow managed to reach my goal of writing 50,000 words for National Novel Writing Month!!!!! I did NOT however finish this fic *LOL* After 50,015 words, I have 6 chapters (and a portion of a seventh) and 3 interludes written. I have a total of 12 chapters and 4 interludes planned out so I still have quite a bit of work to do! 
> 
> For those of you who have NO IDEA what you just clicked on, this is a SEQUEL to _Tea with Mrs. Granger_. In order to understand this one, you'll have to read _Tea_ first or you will most likely be completely lost. (I'm sorry!)
> 
> That all being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please note that it's been nearly two months since the last chapter of _Tea with Mrs. Granger_.
> 
> More notes at the end!!!

June 27, 2000

Draco is alone in the Granger’s garage (though he knows Hermione is in the house somewhere pecking away at that alien looking machine she calls a ‘lap top’), musing over another letter from Lucius. This one more forceful than the last – almost a howler really.

But he is not planning to respond. The letters have – since the beginning - always demand Draco to visit Azkaban. Later there were sections of cajoling language, bargaining with his inheritance then insinuating Draco had become a blood traitor. That’s when he began paying closer attention to Lucius’ correspondence, as the Death Eater-esque accusations began around the time he had begun having weekly tea with Helen.

The letters had continued in this vein, the language devolving into aggressive rambling until the first outright threat was made - with Granger named as the target. He remembers setting the letter down, realizing Lucius’ source (he had suspected his mother) must have misinterpreted Draco’s movements in the Granger home as involvement with the daughter rather than the parents.

He had taken immediate action, writing Minister Shacklebolt and Potter and his solicitors, sending copies of Lucius’ incendiary letters. At the time, he was still technically under probation; and he was determined to do anything to preserve his freedom, including protecting the Golden Girl from his father’s depraved blood supremacy based threats. Honestly, it wasn’t a hardship.

After several more letters, research, talks with the Minister and Potter, and legal maneuverings, Draco had acquired all of Lucius’ assets, a multi-million galleon corporation and constructed a magical vow to thoroughly neutralize Lucius from personally or otherwise harming Granger.

He had also taken care of the source: Lucius’ private secretary, Scout Melville.

And while there were a handful of Death Eaters who had escaped the long arm of the law and were – even now – possibly planning reprisals against the infamous muggle-born witch, Draco and Granger – after extensive interviews with the Minister, Potter, and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – had agreed the magical vow was no longer needed. It was, in short order, broken shortly after that second lunch with Pretty in Pink nearly two months ago.

When his mother discovered, through snooping and other underhanded tactics, the breadth his movements and acquisitions, she had merely sighed and told him she was sorry for being unworthy of his trust and secrets. She had been looking upon him as if he were still the ten year old boy who clung to her robes. She hadn’t realized that he had become a man – a good one. _So different from your father._

Their relationship is still uneven and craggy, each of them proceeding with an exaggerated sense of caution; but they are, at least, talking to each other now though the cadence of their domestic life remains rough and tentative.

At least, now, Draco can admit Narcissa isn’t trying to command or control him anymore, not really. And if that weren’t enough, she approves of how he had himself declared Head of the House of Malfoy before the Wizengamot;, has expressed ample pride for his level of ambition in taking the company with such brutal efficiency; warily approves with conditions his move to consolidate and retain control of the family vaults; and displayed rampant interest in knowing what further plans he is entertaining.

However, he continues to be unsure of the level of communication she currently entertains with Lucius; and therefore, cannot trust her to keep plans he would prefer kept secret to herself.

He glances at the boxy too-uniform numbers flashing on the face of Richard’s radio. It’s nearly noon, and he should be getting ready to leave; but there is still a harsh tension in his shoulders and neck that he wants to work out before Hermione finds him.

It is, after all, Tuesday; and while his Tuesdays were designated ‘tea with Helen’ days previously, they are now ‘lunch with Granger’ days, ever since the chance meet-up with the Weasel’s wife and the insufferable swot herself.

Their tentative friendship is still in its infancy, made even more delicate by the cracked foundations they are working to reinforce and build upon; but . . . he finds that the effort is well spent. She is easy to talk to – intelligent, serious, subtle in wit and fierce in passion. The more he gets to know her, the more he appreciates her conversation and enjoys her company.

However, while he is learning to trust her an inordinate amount, he knows she’s still struggling to trust him fully. Sometimes she’ll gets this faraway look while they talk about his business and the reorganization he’s implementing, other times she’ll deflect when he asks about her plans for the week or she’ll squirrel away when she sees him at her house on another weekday.

It smarts a little, but it’s also more than he expected - how she talks to him, jokes with him, fights with him when he pushes too hard, and blushes so prettily when he teases. And when she _laughs_ . . .

He rotates the torque wrench in his hands with excessive force, watching a cloudy stream of sweat slip down the shaft before repositioning the wrench and rotating again, continuing to torque down on the bolt he’s currently securing to a metal plate and clear his mind of thoughts better not dwelled upon.

He had taken the day off – a mental health day as Granger sometimes calls it and one of the many perks of owning your own company – to find himself in Richard’s garage. This place was now his adopted sanctuary when things become a little too difficult to process constructively.

Usually his internal struggle was caused by the emotional siege conducted by his parents. This time it is due to the ongoing problem of Astoria.

The betrothal contract between their families is still in effect. Astoria had graduated from Hogwarts just a few days ago and sent a request to meet with him once every two weeks instead of once a month per the original agreement. He had – of course – agreed, having no reason to reject such a request. Because despite pulling away from near everything his pureblood elite upbringing had taught him, he thus far resisted giving up his arranged marriage in deference to his mother.

And while – yes – he freely admitted his motive in allowing this arrangement continue is solely to benefit his mother, Draco _wants_ to marry eventually . . . have children, have a _family_ of his own. He has already decided he isn’t going to be like his parents. He wants to be involved with his children from day one. He wants to express affection and dote on his wife thoroughly. He wants to provide – not just materially or physically but mentally and emotionally as well. He wants to be _present_.

Ideally, he hopes he can learn to love Astoria. Richard and Helen have shown him how a felicitous marriage can be; and he wants something similar in his life desperately.

However, he is also beginning to realize that the match arranged for him will make the acquisition of that desire . . . difficult. After months of chaperoned meetings and correspondence, he has become resigned that he will mostly likely never really know or love his intended.

She is gorgeous – tall and trim with flawless skin, honey-colored hair and luminous blue-green eyes. Her manners and deportment are indicative of her fine pureblood breeding and rearing, and her temperament is pleasant enough; but her personality is – at best - bland.

He has fished and prodded, but it seems she has no real interests outside of obligatory social niceties, clothes and décor. When he talks of business, she stares at him with an expression so vacuous he wonders if she is sleeping with her eyes open. While she is – admittedly – more tolerant than most purebloods of muggles, she turns up her nose when he tries to engage her with the subjects of art and science, invitations to the muggle cinema, and his new hobby of tinkering with autos.

Besides a lack of common interests, he is somewhat disturbed by Astoria’s penchant for always agreeing with him – or, at least, never arguing. Draco doesn’t want a doll to wed. He wants a woman with thoughts, goals, desires, and interests of her own. He wants someone to discuss things with – about everything and nothing, not a wall that echoes everything back at him.

Meetings with her are frustrating with much staring into hands and laps and repeated comments on the weather with long, uncomfortable silences between. And, despite his fervent wishes and efforts, it isn’t getting better with time. He doesn’t see how more frequent visits will change anything either.

Breathing heavily and satisfied that one bolt has been tightened completely, he grabs up another to clean then position and begin torqueing. His palms ache from the non-skid surface of the shaft. He should have worn gloves but he hadn’t thought he would be at this such a long time.

The bolt tightens after several revolutions, his muscles working and the tension flowing out of him through his hands to the torque wrench and into the twist of the bolt. He breathes into the labor, the muscles of his back and shoulders relaxing a little more with each squeezing rotation of metal against metal.

The jingle of something falling to the ground causes him to pause and look toward the kitchen door, finding Granger standing there in a thin pink jumper and short overalls, staring at him with wide eyes and open mouth, speechless and curiously red.

“Granger?” He straightens, noticing for the first time just how sweaty he is, shirt plastered to his back and chest, his hair matted to his forehead and cheeks. Shaking his head, he wipes his hands on a waiting flannel before mopping his face.

She bends to pick up what she dropped, her eyes dipping down before focusing on his face again. “I – I just . . . Are you ready to go?” She jiggles the keys to Helen’s car, her body jittering in an inexplicably nervous fashion.

Despite the fact that he’s the one in danger of suffering from heat exhaustion, he keeps a concerned eye on her. “How long have you been standing there?” He glances at the blinking digital clock again. Past noon. “I didn’t realize I’d been here that long.”

She brushes her free hand along her collar bones before digging into her hair and gathering it over her shoulder. He knows from experience it’s something she does when she feels embarrassed. “Not long . . . Just finish up and cast a scourgify or something.” A sidelong glance as she turns on a heel. “I’ll be in the kitchen. I’m . . . really thirsty.”

He watches, feeling restless as she walks away and trying not to memorize the shape and sway of her hips. “Grab a bottle of water for me while you’re at it, Granger.”

***

Hermione’s hands are tight around the steering wheel.

“Where are we going?” Malfoy smells like sweat and diesel with an undercurrent of cologne even after three scourgify charms. Unexpectedly, she isn’t repulsed.

She swallows, gripping the hard vinyl harder till the material whines. Not repulsed at all, though she feels she should be. “We’re going to have a picnic lunch then visit the Bod.” Stomping on the brakes, a little too late, they nearly enter an intersection despite a red light.

She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Why is she so . . . distracted by this?

“The Bod? Isn’t that some great muggle library where you can’t borrow materials?”

She doesn’t want to look at him, knowing his hands are probably gesturing in the air. Hands she had never given much thought to until several minutes ago while she stood at the garage entrance. Hands that had become – for a small eternity – the very fulcrum on which her world was balanced.

“Yes. Libraries. I thought you might like to see it since we’ve talked about it before.”

Hands that – probably – were once underwhelmingly smooth and free of callouses with meticulously manicured nails, but now seem rugged and strong with long, steady digits; pronounced, hardened knuckles and broad calloused palms. Hands that have proven capable and dexterous and –

“I don’t have a reader card, Granger.”

\--are attached to arms with muscles that contour and flex smoothly beneath satiny, sweat glossed skin. She had noticed the Dark Mark was gone – glamoured or removed somehow – and the thought it was his choice to have it gone only encourages her hyper-focused attention on his _fucking beautiful_ hands.

Her tongue suddenly – again - feels like a desert. “I was going to give you this for your birthday but didn’t know you well enough to feel comfortable . . . Anyway, I took the liberty of filling out the admission and statement forms for you. They’re in my bag. You just need to sign.”

Large, knowledgeable hands, the sight of which had made her –

“Thank you, Granger.” She can _hear_ his appreciative smile. “I knew I kept you around for something.”

\--skin feel like fire and her womb clench in a way it hadn’t since . . . since –

“You’re welcome, Malfoy. Have you had any luck finding an assistant that can stand your presence ten hours a day?”

\--since . . . she can’t remember.

“Speaking of, are you absolutely _certain_ I can’t entice you to take the position? I can offer you a sweet signing bonus.”

It is almost a relief, feeling aroused. For a bit, she had begun to think those sorts of feelings had been murdered by the trauma of war.

War and fear of capture. _Torture._

She exhales slowly. It is one of the great secrets of her life that while on the hunt for the Horcruxes, her greatest fear associated with the possibility of capture was not death.

It was rape.

And ever since, it was like her sex drive had gone on a permanent hiatus. She had ceased feeling sexually aroused, having fantasies, sex dreams (that didn’t involve sexual violence), and masturbating. Yet another reason she had broken things with Ron – though not the main reason.

“I’m not even remotely interested in putting myself in a position where I am your employee, regardless of a ‘sweet’ bonus.”

God, she had just stood there like a lemming, gaping like she had never seen a pair of hands hold a torque wrench before and feeling as if her body was consumed with fever, her insides melting to pool in her knickers.

A pair of stupidly masculine hands.

_Malfoy’s hands._

She edges off the road and swerves back on as Malfoy shouts in the passenger seat.

“I was joking about you taking the assistant position, Granger. No need to kill me.”

 _No_ . . . not Malfoy’s hands. It probably wasn’t _his_ hands in particular that had done it. No. She tries to picture a catalog of other men – men she knows, men she wishes she knows, men who are famous and muggle and in movies. She focuses on their features, their bodies, _their hands_ , imagines them working with their hands, gripping things, touching her.

But she feels _nothing._

“It was just a little dip for goodness sake. Nothing to get missish about.”

She determinedly shuts down her imagination (because what she is doing is highly inappropriate given her company), glancing at Malfoy, her eyes tracing his profile.

He’s sitting in a casual man-spread, one elbow propped against the car window. His hair is a sweat damp, finger ruffled mess that falls into his eyes.

Eyes that had burned like liquid mercury, smoldering with . . . something deep and chaotic as he glanced up behind platinum strands when she numbly dropped the car keys.

She bites down on her tongue, wishing she could derail her thoughts somehow. Of course, she had known _objectively_ that Malfoy is good-looking. She just didn’t understand why her brain is suddenly _acknowledging_ she might _potentially_ be _attracted._

“What did you pack for lunch? I’m famished.” He pats his stomach lightly while craning his neck to peek at the hamper in the back.

Her friendship with Malfoy is tentative and new. They are just beginning to work through their past history and issues while getting to know each other in the present. She remembers their fourth Tuesday lunch together at Toulous with fondness in particular,

_Malfoy sets their tray down on the table, somewhat out of place in his impeccable, obviously-expensive suit and polished shoes. She watches him take his seat and begin to prepare his tea. He mentions he needs sugar, and – feeling strangely playful – Hermione silently hands him the salt shaker._

_He grasps the tan colored plastic container and her attention remains on his fingers - the size and shape and length of them, the cleanliness of his nail beds – as he makes to sprinkle the contents; but he stops, flashes an irritated look at her from beneath his lashes, before placing the shaker down and grabbing four sugar packets._

_She grins at him when she hears him mutter that he’s not **that** ignorant to muggle things after all this time. When she asks, “How so?” he says he did a fair amount of independent exploration and discovery on his own; and sometimes, Helen would bring him to different muggle cafés and restaurants._

_Exasperated, Hermione rolls her eyes and asks, “Where **else** did she take you?”_

_Malfoy adopts a glum expression, saying, “The bowling alley” in a tone that suggests utter and complete doom._

_Hermione smothers her amusement, adopting a posh attitude, “Oh and what terrors could have befallen our anti-hero in such a horrid dungeon of fun?”_

_With a glower and excessive gravity, Malfoy intones, “Communal shoes, Granger.” He rubs his hands together as if to wipe them clean of the memory. She takes in the width of them, how the palms fit together, the solid bone structure._

_She covers her mouth to mute her laughter, cheeks pink and eyes watering with mirth._

_As they settled down to take their lunch, Malfoy asks where they should start – an echo of his doubt that they could ever untangle the web of pain, secrets, and antagonism between them. He says, haltingly, that he had truly wanted to be her friend – first year; but then one of the older Slytherins had overheard her talking about her muggle parents to someone. Suddenly, the entire house had her marked – if not because they held their own prejudice then because they knew their parents did._

_He had planned to remain distant but cordial; however, peer pressure and – of all things – Snape convinced him to break off their young almost-friendship completely._

_“Snape? All this time, I thought it was your father who had warned you off.” She bites into her meat pie while Malfoy shakes his head._

_“Father’s word came down later, after he had begun paying my housemates to watch and report my associations and movements. Snape told me to stay away first.”_

_He goes on to say that, for a long time, he had thought Snape was trying to protect him from her muggle germs or something but now he knows Snape was actually protecting Hermione, trying to keep her from Lucius’ attention. Of course, Malfoy himself had ruined the professor’s good intentions by mouthing off about her all of first year in letters and during breaks at home._

_Malfoy quietly apologizes for that, his gray eyes focused and intent upon hers. She blinks and looks down at his hands, curled up as they are next to his plate. She wonders, suddenly how he looks while punching a heavy bag._

_With effort, she tears her eyes away from the undulation of his knuckles to grin, “You know, it was in first year that I set Snape on fire.”_

_Malfoy chokes on his tea, pursing his lips to stifle a laugh._

Back in the present, Hermione smiles at her companion and decides, silently, to shelve her strange fascination with Malfoy’s hands for further (over)analysis later. “Quiche.”

He looks back at her, intrigued, a spark of something like happiness in his eyes. “Quiche?”

She pulls into the car park and kills the engine. “I did owe you one.” She unlatches her safety belt. “Is a bit of ham and spring onion okay?”

His smile is slow and reflected warmly in his eyes. “Maybe I should hire you as my personal cook instead.”

They exit the car, and as she faces away from him, her back to the door, Hermione tries to regain her breath as the slight breeze cools her heated cheeks. When she feels confident again, she finds that Draco already has the hamper looped over his arm, waiting for her.

“For your information, as you are my friend, I would cook for you anytime without payment as long as you ask nicely.” She gives him a faux hard look. “We’ll have to walk a bit.”

He gestures with his free hand, a boyish smirk bowing his lips. “Where you go, I follow, Granger.”

She slings her trusty beaded bag across her torso and steps passed him only to jump when she feels his hand at the small of her back applying a light, warm pressure. Closing her eyes, she savors the contact for a brief second before she realizes what she is doing and quickens her step.

Her heart is racing and her skin is tingling with goose pimples. _It’s okay_ , she comforts herself. _It’s nothing significant_. This – apparently- not so sudden . . . _fascination_ with Malfoy is probably just a response to her reawakening libido. _It’s perfectly natural_ , she thinks. He’s an attractive man, and she’s a heterosexual female.

It doesn’t have to be anything more than a . . . simple biological impulse.

She nods jauntily to herself. Just a biological impulse.

_It’s nothing. It has to be._


	2. Bowling for Chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is struggling with her attraction to Draco, there are food trucks and bowling to be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, posting will happen on Mondays ^_^
> 
> Triggers: No real triggers here save the usual -- hints of anxiety, PTSD.

July 11, 2000

Hermione is running late. She has had a full day of appointments – first with her publisher to turn in a current sample of the book (tentatively titled “Straddling Two World: Muggle-borns in Wizarding Society”); then she was off to interview Arabella Figg; and after she had gotten tied up with answering a multitude of questions from the parents of twin muggle-born wizards scheduled to attend their first year at Durmstang come August.

She knows Malfoy won’t mind. He’s quite proficient in wielding his power as CEO to decide his own hours and what he does with them; but she hasn’t told him yet of her plans, goals, and ambitions. Honestly, she’s not quite sure why she’s keeping it all to herself. She hasn’t even told Harry and Ron. Only her parents, Dr. Ufuoma, and the tentatively involved parties know. 

Talking about her strange jealousy-tinged protectiveness, Dr. Ufuoma had posed the theory that – for years, Hermione had dedicated herself to protecting others and defeating Voldemort, often putting her own passion projects on hold and overworking herself to find urgent answers while – somehow - keeping up with her own studies. Now, she finally has the time, energy, and space to achieve her own goals. It’s no wonder she’s protective. Subconsciously, she is probably waiting for something to happen or come along to take this opportunity away or distract her.

She’s walking as quickly as her heels allow when she turns a corner and stops just outside the door to Toulous. Utterly aware that the door is glass and anyone inside can see her, she takes a moment to smooth the fly-aways at her temples and straighten her high-waisted pencil skirt while rubbing her lips together to gauge if she needs a fresh coat of lip gloss.

These vanities have become almost habit when meeting Malfoy, and she has failed, repeatedly, to explain why she has suddenly become concerned with her appearance where he is concerned. It isn’t as if her primping actually improves anything. She is – after all – still possessed of incredibly difficult hair and an average face. Therefore, she is under absolutely zero delusions that she is the type of woman to turn _anyone’s_ head without an extreme makeover (the Yule Ball comes firmly to mind).

Maybe it isn’t so much _him_ she is (not) trying to impress but the surrounding public? He always arrives at these lunches in his work clothes – full suits tailored to perfection, artfully tousled hair, and well-polished designer leather shoes – looking for all the world as if he just stepped off a page from _GQ_ or the pages of some gossip periodical like _Witch Weekly_. Her casual look simply doesn’t measure up the majority of the time – not that fashion is a contest between them, though she is always cognizant of the interested looks they sometimes receive from other patrons and passersby. 

Draco Malfoy will always draw attention wherever he goes. 

He certainly draws hers nowadays. 

Of course, she has entertained crushes before (she refuses to believe this . . . physique-based awareness is anything more no matter how much she’s growing to like his personality), three to be exact. 

As a five year old, she had been miserably in love with her primary teacher’s fourteen year old son, Trevor. He was tall, funny, and didn’t mind that she used words he didn’t know. Sometimes he would buy her a sweet from the school snack shop. Unfortunately, he had a girlfriend who thought Hermione was “adorable” and would often tell her to run along and play with her friends. Her crush ended abruptly when her teacher quit teaching and moved to another county when she was seven.

And yes, she had, perhaps, thought eleven year old Malfoy to be quite beautiful and gallant for a fraction of a moment; however, his unparalleled prattishness was soon revealed and that fledgling bit of fluff in her heart for him was summarily dismembered before it could become a real problem.

(She doesn’t count Professor Lockhart because, well, he was an adult while she was very much a child and the reasons she liked him were based on lies. Viktor Krum is also left out because she _didn’t_ like him like that. He had approached _her_ and, while she had enjoyed his company and his attention had validated her often-neglected femininity, all she had felt for him was a fledgling friendship.)

Her next crush had been Ron. It began, she thinks, with falling in love with his family – the first purely wizarding family she had become familiar with . . . very nearly adopted into. After they had become friends, she enjoyed their differences – how he relied and trusted her to guide his school work (in contrast to public opinion, she never actually did his or Harry’s homework, she had more integrity than that), how he was able to see the full picture when sometimes she became too tangled in the minutae . . . how . . as they grew older, he seemed jealous of her attention and time.

She had, mistakenly, assumed that such behavior meant he liked her just as much – enough to _pursue_ her, and then he had attached himself to Lavender, leaving Hermione heart-broken and confused. She had still loved him, she thought. She was (not really) content to wait for him to (finally) notice that not only was she a girl but a girl that loved him. But nothing happened. Not when he recovered from the poison Malfoy had dosed him with. Not after the break up with Lavender. Then Dumbledore was dead and the war reached into the walls of Hogwarts and Harry decided to take up the secret mission of finding the Horcruxes with her and Ron following after.

There simply hadn’t been time to indulge in any sort of romantic pursuit. Instead, her feelings had cooled as it became obvious Ron was not coping with their extending camping trip.

(Yes, wearing the locket was soul-rendingly problematic; however, neither she nor Harry had up and left. They had each made a commitment – Harry to see Voldemort’s reign of terror end, she to protect her parents and the wizarding world by following and aiding Harry on his quest, and Ron to be Harry’s support and strategist. Ron was the only one who buckled when things became tough and thorny).

She remembers how she felt when he returned, saying all the right things and giving her the attention she had craved for so long – even through grieving Fred; however, she had been unable to see him the way she had before the hunt, before his leaving. It was – she realized – more of the same. When things didn’t work out the way he wanted, when things became overly difficult and less than ideal . . . when he wasn’t receiving the consideration and praise he felt he was due – Ron would explode then shut down.

The kiss inside the Chamber of Secrets was a good-bye to what-could-have-been. She had already made her decision. When she imagined them together five, ten, twenty years from now, all she could see was constant struggle, painful words, and cold silences. She loved Ron and herself entirely too much to allow that toxicity to overcome their friendship; and now he was happily married to Aria.

“Granger?”

She jumps, squealing in fright and blushing brightly when she finds Malfoy watching her with a concerned frown painting his mouth. She’s still outside the door he’s pressing into, keeping it open.

Licking her lips, she wishes she had reapplied her lip gloss though she doubted it would have made much of a difference. Malfoy had a talent for looking flawlessly sharp and composed. Even in a suit and heels, Hermione feels she appears rumpled and like she’s a little girl playing dress up.

Swallowing hard, she resolves internally to 1. Talk to Dr. Ufuoma about this _fixation_ of hers (as well as her apparent _modus operandi_ of forming romantic attachments to established friendships), 2. Put this crush on Malfoy where it belongs – on the Hogwarts Express, and 3. Tell him about her book . . . and her other goals because she’s tired of being afraid that the other shoe will drop.

Pasting a smile on her face, she apologizes for being late and asks if he’s ordered already.

He’s still frowning. “You’ve been standing out here staring into space for all of five minutes.” All she can wonder is how she never noticed till now how chiseled his features are. Still blushing a – no doubt – unflattering shade of pink, she blinks rapidly to hopefully erase the moon-eyed expression from her face. 

“Sorry. I was lost in my thoughts.” She allows her gaze to slide toward the bistro. “Were you particularly set on eating here?”

He steps fully out of the restaurant. “What do you have in mind?” There’s a subtle growl to his voice, deep and rumbling and just _perfect_. Her knees suddenly feel shaky.

_Stop it. Right now, Hermione._

“Have you ever had street food? I was thinking of maybe Vietnamese?” Her face is still unnaturally hot, her ears practically burning, and her voice is just this side of shrill. “Then we could do something fun . . . like bowling.”

He tilts his head, studying. “I’ve never had street or Vietnamese food; but I think I’ve made my opinion on bowling clear.”

Her fingers extend, her fingertips brushing the smooth, slightly stiff material of his jacket. “Yes, but mum told me you only scored 52 points.”

Someone bumps into her, and she breaks out into a cold sweat, stumbling forward. Malfoy wraps one arm about her shoulders like a fortifying steel band of warmth and strength. She breathes again, a violent flutter erupting in her tummy as he drags his palm down between her shoulder blades before letting go. 

“She only scored 35.”

Hermione clears her throat. “Yes, well, mum isn’t the best bowler to ever grace the lanes. An average bowling score is about 78. A good one is 130-150.”

He swears under his breath. “So you’re _supposed_ to knock down the . . . the . . . “ His hands come up, drawing futilely in the air. 

Giggling, Hermione takes pity. “Pins. Yes. You’re supposed to launch the ball at the pins. The more you knock down, the more points you earn.”

“Helen didn’t explain the rules. I merely followed her example of aiming for the . . . troughs?”

She’s laughing fully now. “Gutters. And no, gutter balls earn no points.”

Where once he would have retaliated with nastiness for her laughter, she’s struck by the fondness sparkling in his eyes, the soft smile hugging his mouth. “And how skillful are you in this game, Granger?”

Grinning, Hermione widens her stance a little and places her hands on her hips. “My average score is 123.”

A competitive glow ignites in his eyes as he stares at her. “Very well, Granger. I’ll accept that challenge, but first –“

“Food.” Hermione agrees and takes his offered arm.

***

Draco tries to keep Granger from noticing the sidelong glances he is aiming in her direction. Her hand is woven through the inside of his elbow, her fingers thin and elegant despite the chewed up nails. He huffs a small humorless laugh to himself and tucks her a little closer as the sidewalk becomes more populated with other people searching out lunch fare.

There’s a frission of concern that won’t leave him though her complexion has settled into its normal hue and the light sheen of sweat has disappeared from her brow. She doesn’t seem quite as nervous or distant, chattering about Helen’s upcoming “mum’s night” with Hermione’s aunts. “Dad says you’re doing really well with the Nova, even without his guidance. He wanted to know if you were interested in refurbishing an auto by yourself.”

There’s a loose curl flitting across the bridge of her nose. His fingers itch to brush it away, to smooth it behind her ear, so he does. There’s a look on her face he doesn’t quite know how to identify – wide eyed, almost unbearably pure, her cheeks smattered in pink. He briefly wonders if he’s upset her, if even this innocent touch is unwelcome because it’s _him_. Something in his midsection twists painfully at the thought that his past sins will forever sully his interactions with her – the most forgiving person he’s ever met.

He rubs the offending sweat-damp hand against his trousers. Her entire body coils to stiff next to him as she half-steps to put some distance between them though she keeps her hand where it rests within the bend of his elbow.

“I was actually thinking of obtaining a driver’s license. Maybe buying a motorcycle.” They are entering what looks like a market, surrounded by food stalls with bright awnings, a million different (delicious) aromas and the sound of sizzling meat filling the air.

“Sirius had a motorcycle. I think Harry still has it actually.”

He nods and smirks at her. “I was thinking of something more . . . modern.”

She shakes her head, cheeks still rosy but eyes clear. “Of course, you were.” She applies subtle pressure on his arm, pointing with her free hand. “We’re here. Do you want me to order for you?” 

Her hip nudges his as she leans slightly to better view the menu nailed to the side of the stall. Somehow, even with the conflicting smells of onions, peppers, meat and smoke, he can easily pick out _hers_. The tightness in his stomach unwinds, just a little. He grins down at her, “I guess I’ll just have to trust you.”

After a ten minute wait in the substantial line, they walk away with Com Curry Dau for him and Goi Cuon Rau for her. He’s unsure about it just by the smell, but she assures him it’s quite tasty and he’s more than welcome to share hers if he doesn’t like it.

They find a bench but Draco doesn’t sit, watching Granger arrange her skirt, a thin paper serviette trying to stretch across her thighs and failing miserably. As she removes the container of food from the plastic bag they were handed, he’s absolutely scandalized and horrified when she opens the white box and lays it on her _mostly unprotected lap._

Is this a muggle thing? Endangering their clothes to probable stains and other forms of soiling? He doesn’t remember Helen being so laissez-faire with her accoutrements. 

He’s about to say something when Granger blithely digs into the food sack again to brandish a white, crudely shaped fork and spoon wrapped in a thin, clear plastic that makes a strange crackling noise as she tears into it. As soon as the fork is freed, she stoops over the food in her lap, the fork poised to dig in.

As if (finally) sensing his disquiet, she glances up at him and asks if he plans on sitting down. _No._ No, he isn’t planning to do anything of the sort. Eating this way, without the foundation of a table to take the stress of holding the food, freeing the mind to focus on _enjoying_ the food (usually more attractively) displayed to the pleasure of their eyes . . . it is positively _savage_.

She glances at him again, her brows drawn low even as she chews. Wordlessly, she shifts so that her heels are raised, angling her knees to prevent her meal from falling to the ground then uses one hand to dig into the bag again, pulling his containers out one by one, placing his own wrapped utensils on top. That done, she then rests a hand on her beaded bag and whispers an accio, summoning two bottles of water.

When he still doesn’t move, those enigmatic brown eyes find him again – scowling and quixotic. “Is there something wrong, Malfoy?”

_Yes, there fucking is_. Doesn’t she understand he has standards? “Isn’t there somewhere we can eat with a table?”

She blinks, lowers her eyes to the meal she would be eating if he weren’t stopping her. “Malfoy, this is street food. It is meant to be bought and eaten on the go.” She waves a hand down the street. He follows the movement, seeing that many are similarly seated on benches while consuming their vittles while others are scarfing down their food while walking. 

But he isn’t giving up. “There has to be somewhere.”

Flatly, she frowns, “There isn’t. Can you put aside your snobbery just this once?”

He stops himself from gaping at her but only just. He observes her eating another summer vegetable roll before fisting his hands and forcing himself to sit down. A deep sigh, stiff movements, layered napkins on his lap. He makes it impossible to dismiss his unhappiness.

He takes his first taste of his dish and hums appreciatively. A giggle at his side has him glancing at Granger who is smiling into her food, and for a moment he loses his focus and drips curry onto his lapel and white button-down. 

Granger’s giggles are music even as he swears and mops up the mess as best he can. She tells him they can spell the stain out later; and he marvels silently how he had always thought her so prim and severe only to find, now, that she is adept at jollying him out of his own head and talented in showing him how to laugh at himself. 

He does – laugh – when she doesn’t calm down, chuckling even with a mouthful of food. The sound is contagious, beautiful, addictive. One of the greatest joys of his life presently is hearing her laugh.

Their rapport is such that they chat while they partake of their lunches. She inquires as to the status of his corporate clean-out, knowing he has hired numerous third-party investigators to identify high-profile employees for any questionable or blatantly illegal materials or projects including but not limited to the use of dark magic. He grins wolfishly and just tells her, “You’ll know soon enough.” Which means, of course, that he’s fed the information to the press. 

He tells her he’s finally hired an assistant, and she playfully bemoans the free time she’ll have without him asking her to pick up his dry cleaning, revise his correspondence, and review contract drafts. When taken at face value, the words are meaningless, just a little bit of humorous fluff between almost-friends; but he notices the slight strain in her voice, the imprint of concealer beneath her eyes. 

The realization that her reticence in telling him of her daily life might be because she is – once again – sacrificing herself for a friend’s benefit sucks the strength from his muscles, making him feel shaky and off-kilter like he’s been jinxed with jelly-legs. He should have known. He had seen firsthand the lengths she was willing to go to for Potter and Weasel through school and beyond. Then, he had viewed her and her actions through a lens of contempt. Now that her giving nature is invested in him, he can feel nothing but concern . . . and gratitude.

But he knows better than to reprimand her for working herself too hard or tell her she should have turned him down, told him she was busy and didn’t have the time. He _wants_ to. After all, he’s Draco fucking Malfoy, and a Malfoy always gets / does what he wants. The caveat being: he knows his status as a peer meant nothing to Granger when they were children and means even less to her now. Telling her what to do would only result in her hexing him and cancelling their current and any future relationship.

She’s always been annoyingly independent and _fair_.

So he smiles and instead thanks her for her dedicated service before lamenting that he will have to let her go. She jokes that the severance had better be worth it.

They finish their lunch without incident or argument, and Draco disposes of the rubbish before approaching her at the bench, noting how she keeps slipping her feet out and into her shoes. “Feet hurting?” He’s known her long enough to infer she doesn’t often wear heels, preferring comfort over style.

Blushing, she ducks her head and twists a curl around her fingers, ignoring his offered hand as she stands. “A little. I’m actually looking forward to the _communal shoes_.”

He pulls a face, grousing that there had better be fresh, new ones for sale or he’ll be bowling in his Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. Snickering, Granger wishes forlornly for a camera and says she has every intention of transfiguring her own clothes into something more casual. There’s no way she’s bowling in a pencil skirt.

Involuntarily, his eyes descend down her form, taking in her compact frame and subtle curves, shapely legs and dainty feet. Returning his gaze to her heart-shaped face and doe eyes, fine nose and beguiling mouth, he feels an unexpected cavernous sense of _yearning_.

Shaking his head, he thinks of Astoria. Per the contract, they are to be faithful to each other. No matter how tempting Hermione Granger is turning out to be.

They are literally the only two people at the bowling alley (besides the skeleton crew staff). Granger has transfigured her nicely fitted suit into a thin cardigan, thinner camisole and denim shorts while her heels become strappy flat sandals. He has followed her lead, now dressed in a storm blue t-shirt and full-length denims. His Salvatore Ferragamos now a pair of equally stylish casual jack shoes.

As she enters their names in the computer (‘Gryffangr’ for her ‘Slythrfoy’ for him – his glare could have frozen ice when he notes their screen names), she tells him, “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about . . . some things, but I was nervous. I’ve only really told my parents. Harry and Ron don’t know yet.”

Of course, he feels fucking magnificent she would want to tell him something before she tells her best friends (whom he still views with a measured kind of dislike – old habits as they say); but he knows better than to gloat too strongly. 

“Oh?” He tries for nonchalant and unaffected. “Is that so?”

She pitches a balled up piece of scratch parchment with screen name drafts at him as he chuckles; and despite her faux annoyance with him, she tells him: about the guide for incoming muggle-borns and their families, about the magical school consulting teams, about the new Muggle Studies proposal. 

It is ridiculous, he thinks, how unbelievable this woman was. She is at once selfless and self-sacrificing as a saint while wielding more than enough ambition to match the most driven Slytherin.

He withholds his opinions for the moment, wanting to chew on each phase of her overall goal for a bit, consume the logistics and taste possible set-backs. “You’re up Granger.”

First on the board, she sashays toward the ball return. Draco watches with a hawk’s focus, noting the way she slips her ring and middle fingers and thumb into the holes on the ball. As if feeling his stare, she glances over her shoulder. “Something interesting about what I’m doing, Malfoy?”

He bites down on his tongue and tries not to interpret that as a flirt. “Helen held the ball very differently.”

Granger throws her head back and laughs, somehow communicating such love and joy, he feels warm all over, a smile curling from down in his diaphragm up to his lips. “Yes, mother is a lifelong practitioner of the squat shot.” No other name is more apropos to his thinking as he pictures in his mind Helen’s sloppy grande plie as she gripped the ball between her palms before swinging it under her bum to launch down the lane. “Just observe the proper form.”

_I fully intend to, Granger_. She holds the ball, resting on the heel of one hand and further supported by the palm of the other directly in front of her chest. _Proper form indeed_ , his mind fucking _purrs_ as his gaze wanders, taking in the round of her bum, the graceful line of her back, the smooth, flowing line of her neck and shoulders crowned by pinned up charismatic caramel curls.

As she leans into the motion of swinging the ball down the lane, one trim ankle crossing behind the other, he admits – only to himself – that he wants her. He wants to kiss the nape of her neck, just between her hairline and her collar. He wanted to trail his fingers along the sensitive soft skin behind her knees. 

Her ball takes down eight pins during that first set, and she does a little awkward-but-insanely-adorable victory dance as he grabs his own ball and approaches the play area. With effort, he swallows down the disappointment that he’ll never be able to act on his attraction to the muggle-born witch, instead focusing his attention on the game, on _winning_.

“How about a little wager, Granger?”

She’s sitting a distance behind him, but he can hear the curiosity in her voice. “Wager?”

“Should I win, I want you to allow me to back your plans.” Because he knows she would never ask.

“Malfoy, you don’t have to –“

“This isn’t a negotiation, Granger. I win, I get to back your muggle-born transition program.”

There is a long hesitation before, “O-okay . . . Though I don’t think it’s quite fair, in the very unlikely event of victory your winnings directly benefit me rather than yourself.”

“I told you I want to be a revolution. I already have my hand in any number of post-war philanthropic organizations – anonymously, of course. I’ve taken the habit of donating my time and money under the names of past Malfoys. For your venture, I think I would like to provide support as myself. So, you see,” he – rather dashedly – punctuates the statement by smoothly but viciously launching his ball and rather serendipitously gaining a strike, “I would, in fact, be benefiting myself and my company.”

She gapes at the fallen pins before shooting him a thoroughly dirty look. “Fine. What do I get should I win?”

He thinks as she approaches to acquire her ball, noting how gingerly she places weight on her feet. “I’ll give you a foot rub.” Really, he is well and truly addicted to putting that flushing wide-eyed shock on her face. It’s almost as intoxicating as causing her laughter. He smirks as he amends, “Like a proper house elf.”

Staring at him for long moments, her face and neck tinted pink even in the dim lighting of the building, Granger doesn’t say anything. Instead, she steps up to the line and let’s fly her ball which – at first – seems on target before veering to the right, dropping into the gutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the suggestion of bowling Thatgirl_kei and Natasha_Rhiannon! 
> 
> Next time, it's our first interlude! Mr. and Mrs. Granger make their sequel debut! Hermione talks to Dr. Ufuoma about her sexual awakening. Narcissa makes her sequel debut!


	3. Interlude I:  Antipasti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione talks to Dr. Ufuoma about her sexual awakening (among other things); Helen is missing her friend; Draco has a talk with his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ssssoooooo, I think my posting schedule will be on Sunday nights because my Mondays are looking mighty busy at work. In other news, wanting to sex someone up =/= love. Also, if you are waiting for smut, you've come to the wrong place. I've written smut in the past, but it isn't my general MO. (I _read_ an alarming amount of smut though). Just fyi!
> 
> Warning and Triggers: There is some angst in here. Allusions to past bullying and parental abuse but nothing graphic. As always, anxiety and PTSD.
> 
> Also, please pay attention to dates and changing tags.

July 11, 2000 (still)

Helen had always found the repetitive action of folding towels and/or clothes therapeutic. It was the one chore she had thoroughly enjoyed growing up as it allowed her to sit in quiet solitude inside the laundry room, surrounded by the soothing smell of laundry detergent and safely away from her mother’s constant criticisms, commands and jibes.

During the early years of her marriage, when she was still becoming accustomed to living with her optimistic and affectionate husband, she would still seek the sanctuary of the laundry room when they inevitably had a disagreement. There she would rewash whatever was in the washing machine and scatter then refold whatever was dry. The sounds of a vibrating washer and rumbling dryer were soothing to her. The feel of fresh linens, terry cloth, and cotton, a balm to skin that had been touch starved throughout childhood and into the teen years. The atmosphere was instant calm to her.

She had retreated there so much in those first years of cohabitation with Richard, that he had started leaving little notes there – mostly ‘I love you’ reminders and pre-emptive apologies. 

Even now, well into her midlife, she still finds the act of fingering clean clothes – particularly if still warm – and setting them to order to be comforting when something is especially bothering or a question needs to be solved. 

Her husband, on the other hand, enjoys getting as grimy and dirty as possible whenever the opportunity arises. Her nose wrinkles as she picks up a whiff of petrol and burnt rubber over the more pleasant hints of lavender wafting from the hamper of clothes at her hip. 

She shakes her head as she hears him shuffle into the main room, his work clothes barely recognizable for all the muck spread about. His face betrays just how happy being covered in filth makes him – like a little boy with a fresh mud puddle. 

Apparently _her_ face betrayed just what she thinks of his appearance because he grins and says,

“Don’t worry, darling, I am always careful inside the house.” Indeed, his trousers were rolled up to the knee and his socks had been – she assumes – thrown in the dirties hamper. He makes a show of holding up his hands, fingers splayed. “I even scrubbed under my nails.”

Pressing a freshly washed nightgown to her nose and mouth, Helen hmmphs, “And what sort of mission were you about today? Bathing in nuclear waste?” Because that is exactly what it smells like to her.

Richard doesn’t even have the grace to look affronted. “I’ll have you know I was just doing a bit of yard work.” His hair is full damp with sweat. It is frightfully hot this summer. 

“You stink of petrol.”

“From the mower, dear.”

Her brows alone express her incredulity. “Did you happen to mistake yourself for the tank?”

He laughs, bending over to slap his knees. “I love you more and more everyday, did you know?”

She chortles into her nightgown, blushing. “I had an inkling, yes.”

When he moves to sit down, she growls and he straightens. “It’s 2:30 already.”

Helen knows what he’s getting at. She folds the nightgown she had been using as a scent mask. “Hermione was nearly late to her appointment with Dr. Ufuoma.” 

He nods even as he leans his hand on the sofa near her shoulder. “You’re allowed to miss your friend, love.”

She stares at him, her entire body paused in the action of pulling a sleeve outside out. When she finally moves, her eyes roll and her fingers deftly jerk the twisted shirt into shape. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.” Huffing, she says, “I was merely worried Hermione would miss her appointment. She’s been overworking herself again.”

He moves to sit down again and this time she barks at him with a narrow, teeth-bearing sneer. Amused and chuckling, he stands upright again, hands on hips. “You’re missing your Tuesday tea with Draco.” He grins down at her. “I’m quite jealous of how his transfer of affections to Hermione have affected you.”

Tutting, she rips a brassiere from the hamper. “Transfer of affect – Richard Ignatius Granger! What absolute ridiculousness!”

But he’s not close to finished, adopting a dramatic mew, “Truly, to be put aside by my beloved wife for such a young man – practically a son, really, and then made to watch her suffer the boy’s mercurial desi—” A pants to the face shuts him up.

“Honestly, Richard.” Helen purses her lips hard though he can see the forceful tremble of her shoulders, containing her mirth. “I am just _fine_ that Draco Tuesday has become Draco _Saturday_.”

One thick brow arcs in question. “Then why have you been folding the same load of laundry since yesterday?” A shirt hits him in the face. “If you keep doing that, I’ll have to give washing another go.”

“Oh hush! I have not been folding the same load!” 

He smiles warmly at her, “Yet, you don’t deny you’re obviously upset about something.”

She stares at him with narrowed eyes.

“Come on, love,” he encourages, “tell Richie all about it.”

Helen throws up her hands, “Okay! Okay! I . . . _am_ a little jealous.”

Richard opens his mouth wide and inhales loudly while Helen rushes, “I’m jealous of _Draco’s_ time with _Hermione_.” It’s true but only a small part. She’s not ready to talk about the depths of her concerns, not yet.

Which doesn’t deflate Richard at all. “I _knew_ it!” He steps up to where she sits, cages her body between his arms as he bends to her and takes her mouth in a fierce kiss. “But it’s nice, isn’t it? How they’re getting on so well together.”

Helen very carefully places her hands on his face and pushes him away, overwhelmed by the industrial strength stink surrounding him. Vaguely, she thinks she can taste weed killer on her lips, musing, “I wonder if Narcissa is similarly optimistic.”

Richie scoffs, “She isn’t so bad. Why the other day, she didn’t even hesitate to shake my hand.”

Helen’s grin is sharp as shark’s teeth. “She was wearing gloves, dearest.”

Richard sighs before heading upstairs to shower.

***

Dr. Efenema Ufuoma watches as Hermione paces a bald spot in the carpet. They had already spoken of where she is with her muggle-born transition projects (with a gentle reminder that she has a tendency to overwork herself and should be mindful of pacing), how she is handling her anxiety, and what progress she has made in her familial relationships, so . . . “Is there anything else you would like to talk about, Hermione?”

The younger woman pauses, doe eyes open wide and mouth slack. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

Adopting a non-threatening pose, quill and parchment set down, hands settled in her lap, her features relaxed into a warm but absent expression, Efenema gently reassures, “Take your time. I’m right here if you need to discuss anything.”

Hermione continues to pace, her face blushing and paling alarmingly and repeatedly. She mutters to herself as she goes, hair flying around her head in a thready cloud. Her hands are never still, fidding at her waist then coming up around her head before waving down and warding off then pushing out to come in again. 

The doctor notices the girl’s breathing follows the movement – _inhale (hands at center), hold (flapping about), exhale (pushing out), inhale (back to center)_. At least, the war hero is using her coping mechanisms. Still, it is somewhat worrying that whatever is bothering Hermione is possibly causing rising levels of anxiety.

Suddenly, the pacing stops as her client pivots sharply on one heel. “I . . . Is it normal to have . . . _thoughts_?”

Efenema doesn’t smile or laugh. She remains, face relaxed and non-threatening. “What kind of thoughts?” She needs to make sure Hermione is not thinking of self-harm but knows better than to lead. 

Hermione’s hands are balled up at her sides as she extends her neck back, aiming her eyes to the ceiling, her chest heaving a deep breath. “L . . . lu . . . _luuuuhh_ , no –“ She’s turning redder by the second as she stutters, “ _S-sexual th-thoughts_.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Efenema resists the urge to reach for her quill and parchment. “Hermione. You are a healthy adult woman. Of course it’s normal.” _But_ . . . “I understand you have been concerned about your continued lack of interest in sex and sexual activity. Do you want to talk about the sudden return of sexual interest?” 

Still standing with leg bouncing nervously, Hermione looks around the room, her eyes never settling. “It’s . . . It’s embarrassing.”

“Tell me how it’s embarrassing.” Efenema has been treating Hermione Granger for over a year, and the girl is generally quick to answer questions and talk of concerns. It is rare for her to be hesitant or embarrassed. “You were very forthright about your virginity when we first addressed your relationship to sex and how the war affected it. Help me understand why you would think lustful thoughts would be embarrassing.”

She sits, petite and folded into herself, a little ball of limbs and chaotic hair from which brown eyes glitter. “It’s not the thoughts themselves that are embarrassing . . . I . . . They are rather tame, I imagine; but the subject –“ 

Her blush deepens and in a strike of intuition, Efenema guesses, “The boy who bullied you as a girl?” It’s not a far leap. For the past few sessions, Hermione has talked of him frequently.

“Yes.” She affirms hoarsely. “Malfoy.”

“In the fantasies, does he harm you?”

Hermione chokes a bit, her skin flushed a deep red, as she emphatically shakes her head in the negative, reiterating haltingly that she imagines her . . . lustful thoughts are rather vanilla.

“Hermione, having sexual thoughts about an ex-bully is just as normal as having sexual thoughts about a stranger.”

Her hands come up to cover her face, her ears visible and glowing a deep pink. “It’s not just . . . I just don’t understand why this is happening.”

Efenema allows a reassuring smile at the confused young woman. “Is it really so surprising? Just as you’ve been burying your negative, uncomfortable emotions to focus on survival, you’ve most likely also been burying your more positive and pleasurable ones. Now that the danger is over, your mind and body can once more entertain these previously denied impulses.”

“But _why him_?” Hermione seems especially agitated about this particular question, her voice breaking and pleading. “We just started a friendship. I don’t even know his favorite color or food or what his first memory is!”

Pitching her voice to placate, Efenema reaches out to place a stabilizing hand on Hermione’s shoulder and establishes deep eye contact. “Hermione, just because you find someone physically attractive, you are not obligated or expected to act on it. You never have to alert him to your interest. You never have to date him. You never have to kiss or perform sexual acts on him. You never have to have intercourse.” She pauses to gauge Hermione’s reaction before continuing. “You will find that there will be hundreds of people you find attractive and have lustful thoughts about in your adult life; however, if you are not ready or simply decide the risk isn’t worth the depth of your desire, you have the right and _responsibility_ to yourself to live that truth.”

“I . . . I know that. I do. It’s just very awkward.” She rubs one cheek nervously. “Since we meet for lunch every Tuesday and he spends Saturday at my house.”

Efenema glances at the clock and marks the time. She doesn’t want this session to end with Hermione in a difficult place; and she can tell that Hermione is not being completely open about her concerns. “Are you interested in exploring a deeper relationship with him, Hermione?”

She pales and stiffens, looking sick. “I don’t know . . . I. . I’m not ready . . . not for anyone, but –“ Brown eyes lower to study the carpet, her shoes. 

“But?”

Hermione meets her gaze head on, mouth set in a grim line. “But I dream about him.”

“Sex dreams are –“

“They aren’t sex dreams. They’re domestic . . . we’re married or . . . _together_. Sometimes, we have children.” Reddened eyes release fat tears as Hermione sniffs. “We’re happy. In the dreams, we’re so, so happy; and when I wake up . . . when I . . . it _hurts_ and so, so _ridiculous_ be—because it was never real and yet, somehow, I . . . I _miss_ it.”

Efenema hands over a box of tissues, counseling softly, “Hermione, sometimes dreams are just dreams. And sometimes in dreams, the people we know whom we are familiar with and deem as _safe_ are just place holders.”

Desperately, Hermione nods, sobbing, “I know. . . . I know. It’s silly and just like me to wish for an impossible romance.” She laughs without much humor, the sound cutting and empty. “Even if I did ask him for a date, he would never agree.”

“Why do you say that?” Efenema’s voice is soft in the hush that falls among the dim space of her office. It’s a sound and feeling that vibrates with the promise of release. She can see it in Hermione’s eyes, the desperation shadowed there as she runs the fingers of one hand along the other arm, from the inside of her elbow to the cuff of her long sleeve.

A haunted look steals across her already despairing features, a look very much like the one that had covered her face when she first began attending therapy. “Because I’m nothing but a filthy Mudblood.”

***

Draco is – once again – exhausted (but also pretty pleased with himself) as he trudges through the Manor, musing that soon, he won’t have to walk up two flights of stairs and a fucking kilometer of corridors to get to his bed or maneuver through a veritable maze of banquet, ball, parlor, visiting, and other unnecessary rooms to get to the one dining room they actually use. 

He arrives at said dining room two minutes past the appointed time, finding his mother already seated and served. She shoots an annoyed look in his general direction as he approaches and takes his seat opposite.

“You’re looking quite satisfied, son.” Narcissa dips her spoon, shallowly into her soup, bringing it up to her lips carefully. 

Draco snaps his thick, quality napkin with finesse, laying it across his lap in one smooth motion before inwardly thanking the Powers That Be for the table on which his food sits. “I won a little wager today that I believe will bring valuable returns.”

She doesn’t ask about the wager or the winnings, a great departure from her previous inquiries into ever bleeding aspect of his business. “Malfoy Holdings will be financially backing the muggle-born transition initiative spearheaded by Hermione Granger.”

The subtle clink of metal on porcelain. “Oh?”

He takes a small sip of wine. “We have yet to negotiate the details; but I’ve already advised her to avoid Ministry involvement.”

His mother nods in agreement. “Allowing the Ministry to finance or otherwise influence her program would either halt her progress or ensure her voice is muted.”

“Hhhhmmm,” he hums noncommittally as he swallows his soup. “How was your day, Mother?”

“It was lovely, dear.” She smiles genuinely, the warmth of it like nothing he’s ever seen from her before. “I spoke with Mrs. Greengrass, such a chatter-box that woman. She intimated that Miss Greengrass is looking forward to seeing you more frequently now that she’s out of school and near her majority.” She sips her wine, a light rose coming to her pale cheeks. “Isn’t that wonderful, dear?”

He takes two bites in quick succession, breaking bread and stuffing his mouth in a way he hasn’t done since he was a tow-headed child. There’s something he wants to know – something that’s been eating at him for weeks and growing stronger damn near daily; but he isn’t certain they are civil enough for such a sensitive conversation.

Studying his mother covertly as she addresses her dinner, he takes in her relaxed shoulders and the barely-there curvature of her mouth. She seems at ease and . . . happier than he’s seen her in a long time – possibly since before Voldemort took up residence . . . possibly since before his resurrection.

“Mother, I know you’re rather attached to the contract you and Lucius negotiated with the Greengrasses.” His hand twitches on his spoon. That was unforgivably sloppy. He must be more tired than he originally thought. Stamping out corporate corruption, managing a social life (and unwanted engagement), and keeping up with current politics were draining at best.

His mother is poised in her chair, her eyes taking in everything, calculating . . . judging. “Well, of course, it is always a happy event when two well-matched pu-p-people join together to make a new life.” She smiles in such a way that suggests shyness but Draco knows better. “I do look forward to having a grand-child one day, Draco-dear.”

He tries to imagine Astoria with a child – his child, and can barely construct anything that doesn’t look like an inanimate doll hanging limply in her hands or – more likely – a small army of house elves rearing the child. Whatever impressions Astoria has given him, none of them come close to suggesting any measure of maternal charm; however, his impressions may be incorrect. They had never actually discussed the subject of progeny.

_Still . . ._

“I would like to . . . do this for you – go through with this engagement. I know my departure from the old ways has been difficult for you to understand. I would like to give you this –” His voice leaves him, seeing the hope in her face, the glitter of tears – real ones, he’s certain – dancing across her eyelids. 

She grips the table with fragile-looking fingers. “But?”

He clears his throat. “But . . . were I to meet someone else – someone who may suit me better, would you . . . find it acceptable should I break the contract?”

She blinks, taken aback. “Do you not like Miss Greengrass?”

Once again, he feels his body become weighted with a wave of disappointment. He gives a heavy sigh, turning his attention to the main course – a lovely _filet de maigre parfume au ras-el-hanout fenouil et riz rouge de Camargue_. “I . . . don’t dislike her.” _I feel nothing for her, and the thought of spending the rest of my life with her makes me want to jump off the Hogwarts astronomy tower with the Sword of Gryffindor in my hand._

Again, she stares at him, hard and fully. “Is . . . Do you have someone else in mind?” 

_Yes. Tentatively. If you tell me you would rather see me try for love rather than settle for an arrangement. And if I ever scrounge up the courage to let her know I’m interested._ “No. Just asking in the event I meet someone.” 

His mother’s posture – if possible – becomes even more rigid and perfect, her chin tilting up slightly, lips pursed into a faint pout. He wonders briefly if she even realizes she’s doing it. “This . . . hypothetical woman. I assume blood purity would not matter to you.”

Straightening, he meets her discontent head on with a very definitive, very _final_ , “No.”

“Well then.” She seems to wilt, looking as tired as he feels. Faintly, “While I would _prefer_ you marry a pureblood girl from a well-connected pureblood family . . . “ Her blue eyes meet his stormy ones, her face soft and expression yearning, “more than this, I desperately want you to be _happy_ , dearest.”

Quiety, he returns to his dinner, feeling his appetite slowly slip away as his stomach twists and ties itself in painful knots. Somehow, his mother’s words ring hollow. Somehow, he knows she’s just going through some . . . self-prescribed motion to please and steer him.

After stirring his fork about his plate uselessly for long minutes, he places his napkin on the table, begs pardon and announces he is retiring for the night.

“Draco, darling, are you feeling okay?” She doesn’t make one move to get up from the table.

He rubs at his chest, feeling a tingling start there and climb up his neck as his breathing hitches and his heart begins to race. Suddenly, all he wants is to be at the Grangers’ house, working in the garage or at the boxing club, beating the shite out of the heavy bag; but it’s too late and he’s an early morning. Maybe he’ll go for a run. 

“I’m fine, Mother.” He mutters softly before making his way to the first staircase, trying not to feel as if another nail has just come down on his matrimonial coffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be thinking: _Jesus H. Christ, is she trying to torture us by torturing Hermione and Draco?_ Allow me to assure you. Yes. Yes to ALL OF IT.
> 
> ^_^
> 
> Have a goooood niiigggghhhhtttt (or morning, day, evening . . . yeah) ^_~
> 
> (Also, I very stupidly decided to participate in a Dramione Christmas Fest thing so I've gotten behind on the writing of this fic because I've been writing a Christmas oneshot for the fest. So, if it pleases you my dear readers, keep an eye out for that XD)
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Hermione and Draco go to the mall. Draco meets one of Hermione's muggle bullies (see chapter 1 of Tea for a refresher). And prat!Draco makes an appearance.


	4. Presiding Over the Food Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione go to the shopping centre. Hermione is surrounded by bullies. Draco is a fucking idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Thatgirl_kei, for the idea of Hermione bringing Draco to an arcade ^_^ 
> 
> Triggers: so. much. angst. There's a little bit of sexual tension in here . . . okay, a LOT so if that makes you uncomfortable, steer clear (or read on!) There's also some verbal bullying in this one as well as a mention of past physical violence toward Hermione. 
> 
> Also, as mentioned in the chapter summary, Draco is a little bit of a dick here (though he has his reasons) - not in word but in deed.

July 18, 2000

Perched on a bench inside the Brent Cross Shopping Centre, Hermione waits for Malfoy to return with the iced coffee she had forgotten at the WH Smith till. They hadn’t been at Brent Cross very long, and the decision to take their lunch here was inspired by Malfoy’s interest in experiencing – for himself – a few of her Muggle Studies field trip ideas. 

As she sits, cursorily people watching, she thinks about last week’s therapy session and Dr. Ufuoma’s reaction to her fear that Malfoy – for all of his seeming character growth and promises – still views her through the lens of blood supremacy.

_Dr. Ufuoma took her hands and asked her if that is how Draco treats her now, if he asserts that she is ‘filthy’ and lesser – somehow deserving of the blood slur. When she says, “No. Not anymore” the doctor requests an explanation as to why she is letting past history dictate the present when – supposedly – there had been admitted remorse and forgiveness awash between them._

_Hermione swallowed and whispered that she had seen him, just today, wipe his hand after touching her, as if he were disgusted and she diseased. When the doctor then followed that up with, “Did you address your concerns about his attitude and gesture in the moment?,” Hermione had admitted she had not._

_“Is it possible, then, that you misconstrued his wiping his hand?”_

_Thinking back, Hermione realized she couldn’t remember another time since they’ve reconnected that Draco has shied away from her or otherwise presented outward signs of prejudice. “I . . . don’t know. He had just brushed my hair back from my face then . . . I guess it’s possible that it was innocent.”_

_Dr. Ufuoma had studied her for many beats then, “If it happens again, I want you to use your voice in the moment but no accusatory language. Try not to let things like this pass until they become bigger than they may actually be.”_

She’s appreciative that the Dr. didn’t dismiss her feelings; didn’t tell her she was imagining things or expect her to get over it; and didn’t offer hollow assurances that the word or gesture is meaningless. These things, these traumas of prejudice and hate no matter how old and past are not soil on a cloth so easily washed away. Rather they are worn, itchy threads that become woven into the very fabric of one’s being, completely and forever changing the pattern of the life-garment.

_“When you get a chance,” Dr. Ufuoma went on, “I would like you to try to talk to Mr. Malfoy about this incident – again, no accusatory language. It will be your homework for this week.”_

She had had ample opportunity to ask him about it during the week via mobile, owl, and – now – in person; however, she is paralyzed by the notion of rocking their already precarious boat to capsizing. He is the only magical friend she has that has actually taken the time to get to know _her_ world of origin.

While Harry had similarly been raised in the muggle realm, his experience had been so horrible that now he prefers to largely pretend muggledom doesn’t exist – only making exception for her. Even during his travels abroad, he patronized mainly wizarding communities. 

The Weasley’s rarely ever leave the wizarding world. Ginny, Ron and most of her other classmates (even the half-bloods) only venture forth when visiting her; but have shown no interest in learning how to function independently here. 

Luna and Neville sometimes join her for outtings and activities, but are rarely available for more than that. Dean prefers to remain in the wizarding world though sometimes spends time with her on the other side. Seamus . . . It is probably a small blessing that Seamus is only interested in muggle pubs and eating establishments and not much else.

Malfoy, however, is insatiably curious and (mostly) open-minded that reminds her very much of herself when she was being introduced to the wizarding world. There are a few choice things about muggle culture that he simply does not accept - such as eating anywhere that isn’t a table, the state of most public water closets, and what he sees as a crippling reliance on electricity; however, he has proven time and again that he is capable of blending seamlessly with the masses. Walking the walk and talking the talk.

His quick study and interest has gifted her with the opportunity to explore her long-neglected muggle side with someone she can finally be fully herself around. No cover stories. No secrets. No pretending magic isn’t real. 

Honestly, she hadn’t fully realized just how isolated she was on _both_ sides of her fragmented existence until Draco’s presence in her life had relieved a little of that invisible tension. She’s not nearly confident enough in her and Malfoy’s fledgling relationship to risk it over a possibly imagined slight.

“Hermione?” A female voice drawls with a small laugh to her right. Hermione looks up to find a young woman about her age, tall and sturdily built with short auburn hair and sun kissed skin. She’s accompanied by a tall, stocky young man with familiar stony amber eyes. “Hermione Granger?” This time the laugh is more pronounced with an edge of disbelief.

War and the stratagems of polyjuice and masks has made Hermione paranoid of new people. Considering she has virtually no recollection of this couple while at least one knows her name and face and – it doesn’t escape her - they are blocking her egress from the bench, her hand starts to itch for her wand, heart beating like a drum in her chest – heavy and ready for flight. 

Despite her long absence from the wizarding world-at-large, she still gets the Prophet. She knows there are still Death Eaters on the loose throughout Europe. She might be looking at two just a few negligible feet in front of her. Her mind becomes a tumble of possible opening attacks, defensive spells, and catastrophic scenarios that might unfold should she confirm her identity.

She is planning to attempt a (probable) disastrous vault over the back of the bench when her lost drink is thrust in front of her face from over her shoulder. Craning her neck, she sees Malfoy glaring at the newcomers with a fierce expression as he greets them with an icy, “Hello. Draco Malfoy. Who are you?”

Taking her drink with numb hands, Hermione turns her attention to the woman and man, “Yes. I’m . . . I’m Hermione Granger; but I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t –”

The girl fairly explodes into spitting laughter, covering her mouth as she hoots and makes a spectacle. “Wow, Hermione, you look so pretty now, but your hair is still atrocious, isn’t it?” She actually reaches and grabs a handful of Hermione’s loose hair, tugging none too gently. “It’s me. Elizabeth! From primary. Elizabeth Cromwell.”

The last time Hermione saw Elizabeth Cromwell, she was ten years old, gawky with long coffee colored hair, ruddy skin littered with freckles and wide-rimmed glasses.

Hermione’s eyes widen as she gently untangles the strange fingers from her hair before standing to offer an impersonal hand shake. Elizabeth isn’t having it, pulling a stiff and resisting Hermione to her bodily and kissing her cheek. 

Feeling exposed and vulnerable from the experience, Hermione stutters a brief introduction between Malfoy, Elizabeth and the boy (Randall Renquist – a year older, suspended for two days when he burned a nine year old Hermione while trying to light her hair on fire with a stolen zippo lighter) as she realizes she is surrounded by former bullies even if one of them is now counted as a friend.

Randall seems quite content to just stand around silently while Elizabeth chatters about being confused that Hermione calls Malfoy her friend when it’s obvious he’s her boyfriend. Apparently, he’s been seen at the house all hours of the day and helping her dad in the garage like a bum (“not that I think you’re a jobless lay-about, Draco. It’s just strange to see a young man of our age without more . . . gainful pursuits.”)

Malfoy merely smirks condescendingly. “To me, it’s stranger still to see a young woman so concerned with the comings and goings of another family’s guest.”

Randall chuckles at that, smacking his hand against Elizabeth’s back. Hermione merely watches the train wreck happening before her eyes, feeling equal parts useless and helpless in a way she thought she was over and done with. 

Elizabeth recovers from the rather blatant (if politely executed) accusation of snooping to laugh gaily and ask about how they met. Hermione once more iterates that Draco is just a friend and keeps the story of their acquaintance simple, aware that this girl and this boy have no clue about wizards and witches. “We met in boarding school. Unfortunately, we weren’t exactly friends while students as we were assigned to rival dorms; however, we reconnected recently and found that we actually get along quite well.”

“That’s right. I remember mum thinking your mum was mental sending you off to Scotland for school. Our class wondered what _awful_ thing you must have done to want you out of the house most of the year, you know? Of course, _I_ never believed any of that rubbish.” Elizabeth taps her chin then smiles toothily at Malfoy. “You know, before she left primary, Hermione was a bit of a goody-two-shoes and an ugly duck with all that monster hair and beaver teeth.” She laughs gaily. “I almost didn’t recognize her!”

Hermione swallows thickly, not unaccustomed to comments on her appearance – from individuals or publications. Glancing at Malfoy as he seats himself next to her, she jumps when one muscled arm is thrown over the back of the bench, his fingers reaching to tease her curls. She takes in his blank expression as he very firmly retorts, “I’ve always thought she was intriguing and exquisite. Funny how two different people can perceive the same thing so differently.” 

Elizabeth scowls then volunteers that she’s currently studying to become a primary teacher while Randall works as an assistant manager at a popular grocers. Hermione makes all the appropriate polite acknowledgements, wishing this conversation was over and trying not to react to the maddeningly arousing sensation of Malfoy’s fingertips caressing over her nape, back and forth. (Ignoring it is too much to ask considering her current level of stress).

An awkward stand-off ensues with Hermione staring at her knees (which are squeezed almost painfully together), Malfoy staring down the two interlopers with a sharp grin and cool gaze, Elizabeth opening and closing her mouth as if fishing for something to say, and Randall standing like a silent sentinel distantly watching.

Finally, Elizabeth’s words stumble from her mouth, “Well, Randall and I need to be heading off. It was nice to see you again, Hermione; nice meeting you, Draco. Maybe we can make arrangements for tea soon.”

Hermione stands again, reluctantly accepting an awkward half embrace while nodding to Randall as she stutters over her own good-byes, “Yes. Yes, it has. Quite a pleasant surprise. Of course, we can arrange to meet for tea.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything, merely stands by near her shoulder, observing the proceedings with obvious skepticism. 

Formalities over, the two interlopers leave, and Hermione is left with her drink which has long since melted and her unbearably attractive friend/crush. “Goodness. I’m so sorry about that, Malfoy.”

He places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her to walk. She prays he doesn’t feel or hear her breath catch. When they pass a rubbish bin, he aims a questioning glance at her, plucks the slush filled cup from her hands and chucks it. “You looked rather fearful. Did they say something to you before I arrived?”

“No. I just didn’t recognize them, and then I started thinking of polyjuiced Death Eaters,” she titters nervously, still feeling that residual suspicion and then, “Thank you . . . for supporting me back there.” She gathers her tattered courage and smiles up at him. “You didn’t have to flatter me like that, but I appreciate it.”

He scratches his chin before pinning her with his gunmetal stare, baldly, “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” 

Her entire body warms with a blush, her hands fidgeting, unspeakably uncomfortable even as she murmurs her gratitude. 

But Malfoy isn’t satisfied. “Why do compliments on your appearance make you so skittish. I’ve noticed it before when Richard notices you’ve done something with your hair or on the occasion I’ve seen a bloke try to get your attention.” He pauses for a moment, digging his hands into his denim pockets. “Bloody hell, you practically tore out of your skin anytime someone commented on how fucking gorgeous you turned out at the Yule Ball.”

Her flush deepens to nuclear meltdown levels. She’s never been especially comfortable with appearance-based attention, not only because - in her experience - it was usually negative. “I’m . . . simply not accustomed to receiving those sorts of comments – and my parents don’t count, Malfoy. They’re supposed to say I’m pretty and amazing and a million other nice things.” She huffs lightly, “And there are no blokes trying to get my attention. . . unless it’s to pick my brain or navigate the library.”

He snorts, clearly convinced of his rightness. “And I suppose Potter and the Weasel never said anything either.” Shaking his head, he curses, “Fucking prats probably _never_ treated you as the lady you are.”

Rubbing her cheeks and gathering her hair over one shoulder, Hermione tries not to read more into this conversation. Instead, she giggles and tells him, “I was happy to be treated as one of the boys . . . at least for the first few years. I’m partway certain Ron believed I was hiding a penis under my skirts and knickers, at least until the Yule Ball. Harry was much more perceptive and respectful of my . . . girl-ness.” 

She laughs fully now, the embarrassment fading away to pleasant memories. “Even when Ron and I began flirting with the idea of being something more, he never really acknowledged that I possess any measure of femininity.” 

Honestly, Ron _still_ sometimes treated her like a guy with extremely feminine features, always so shocked when she appeared wearing a dress or something equally form-fitting, as if she’d been hiding or misrepresenting her gender all this time. It was a conundrum she had found to be fairly common in school and now – especially – with the ‘fame’ she had experienced before leaving to find her parents. People tended to look at her and see a brain on two legs, often judging her as masculine for her tendency to speak her mind and refusing to apologize for being equally intelligent and ambitious. 

Her appearance had always been a target of school yard bullies, but it wasn’t until Rita Skeeter became a fixture in Harry’s life that her looks had been made the subject of public castigation. She was barely fifteen, in the doldrums of puberty and all the drama it entails. Her roommates – so concerned with prettiness and make-up and hair charms and boys – only made things worse by agreeing with the more insulting commentary. 

With the Yule Ball announcement, she had immediately hoped Ron would ask her and when he hadn’t – his focus flitting from one girl to the next, her self-confidence had taken a rather devastating hit. Viktor’s attention had been – at once – confusing and a balm to her hidden hurt feelings, making her briefly aware that her brain and love of studying didn’t mean she had to play the part of doomed spinster; but that brief connection wasn’t enough to undo the damage of constant backhanded compliments highlighting her cleverness while belittling her face. 

After fourth year and Voldemort’s resurrection, she had become so focused on getting prepared for the upcoming war and keeping Harry alive and sane that she sometimes feels she is now – basically – a self-fulfilling prophecy of the public’s popular image of her.

A brain on two legs with virtually no sexuality and no sex appeal.

She shoots a sidelong glance at Malfoy, licking her lips when she imagines tasting his Adam’s apple.

_Formerly_ a brain on two legs with virtually no sexuality . . . still no sex appeal.

She sighs softly, inwardly accepting things she – apparently – cannot change.

“Why are we here, Granger? It looks sort of like an indoor Diagon Alley.” They are so close, his arm brushes hers every other swing, and the tingles of contact are driving her mad; but she doesn’t want to create more space between them. He’s touched her several times today and not once has he signaled disgust.

“Well, I was thinking we could sit down and eat lunch at the food court, and then . . . have you ever been to an arcade?”

His face is subtle intrigue. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

She grins up at him, letting two of her fingers, rest briefly against his wrist. “Well, then. It’s a good thing I emptied my coin jar.

***

Draco is watching her without actually seeing her as they walk through the complex known as the ‘shopping centre’ – dodging shoppers with bulky bags and flailing children, peering into stores when Granger feels like window shopping and resuming the walk when she’s satisfied. He knows the reunion with that Elizabeth chit and the Randall wanker had temporarily rocked her delicate center; and though he is not yet aware of their history, he’s observed Granger enough to know the three of them were/are not friends. And even if he hadn’t known what to look for in Granger’s body language, he would’ve known it from the tone and content of Eliza-bitch’s conversation.

“Do you think your other neighbors think I’m your boyfriend?” He can’t help but ask. It is the only part of the whole debacle he feels positively about. (Which means he should probably leave it alone, right?)

He smirks when he notices the light blush dusting her cheeks. 

“I . . . really couldn’t say. Most of our neighbors have known me since I was small, so –“ she trails off, shrugging though the movement seems stiff and disingenuous. “Um, would it . . . bother you if they did?”

As long as the rumor didn’t get back to his mother . . . or Astoria. In actuality, he . . . he mentally grasps the wish that it weren’t just a rumor and buries it deep where he keeps all of his other secrets and impossible dreams. “No. Not at all. Just wondering, really.”

He feels more than sees her nod, his hands aching to hold hers – the fleeting opportunity to touch her earlier had created a hunger he didn’t necessarily want to satisfy (her skin is like silk, so soft) as he couldn’t fathom not wanting (needing?) to touch her. (Which is yet another problem, similar to the desire to actually be her paramour, in the face of his engagement).

They reach the predestined ‘food court’ which looks and feels like a mishmash of unrelated, eclectic culinary styles and entwining scents until everything blurs together in an unappetizing, stinky pit of gastric despair.

His face must have revealed his less than enthusiastic reaction to this ‘court’ of food as Granger snickers softly, her eyes shining beautifully at his expense. He’s about to say something when his body goes hot as her hand grabs his, a giggle in her voice. “Are you okay with pizza?”

The way she says it – the questioning format, the intonation – makes it clear she thinks he has no idea what a pizza is let alone whether he would eat one. He also can’t help but note her blush has paled into her normal skin complexion, tempting him.

Carefully, he catches her gaze with his and smirks in obvious (dangerous) flirtation before twisting his hand in hers, switching the hold. Her lips are parted, her breath accelerating; and he knows he’s playing with fire but can’t seem to stop himself. Lifting her hand in his, he presses his lips to her knuckles before pausing there, eyes still locked on hers, and brushing his mouth across her fingers. Once. _Twice_.

He inhales. _Fuck_ , she smells as heavenly as she looks and tastes.

Coming back to himself, he slowly lowers her hand, disentangling their fingers. She’s red from her forehead to her fingertips from what he can see. He grins. Mission accomplished. (The fact he’s half hard is just a bonus really, no matter how inappropriate the setting and the circumstances and _shite_! He is utter _shite_ for entertaining this fancy with her when he can do nothing about it!)

Clearing his throat, he smiles. “I think you’ll find that I am well-traveled, Granger. I can assure you I’ve had pizza before.”

Still utterly and adorably red, she claps her hands together and stutters an overloud, “Fantastic!” while charging over in the direction of what he supposes is the pizza shop. 

There’s a sizeable but manageable line, and she tells him to go find them a table (an idea he initially balks at because he’s a gentleman and doesn’t want a lady serving him) while she waits and is margherita okay? Or would he like something more adventurous. 

He relents when he sees the fire in her eyes and replies that he’s had enough adventure today and margherita is fine and classic.

It is a mistake.

The pizza is a gargantuan, horrible mistake.

When Granger arrives with their tray of pizza slices and drinks, the first thing he says is, “Where are the utensils?”

The second, “And napkins?”

Granger just throws a flat look down at him and announces she’s going to get some.

When she returns, one – _one_ – set of plastic wrapped utensils and a fairly large stack of paper serviettes in hand, he watches her distribute plates and slices and drinks, blurting, “Aren’t you going to use a knife and fork?”

She very blatantly takes up her slice in her _bare hands_ , opens her mouth and brings the cheesy concoction to her lips, biting down and chewing with such moaning relish, his denims grow even tighter (even while he struggles to get over the image of her _eating with her hands_ ).

He watches, suspended in some strange limbo of unwanted arousal and scandalized shock as she blithely licks her lips and sucks on her fingers before daintily dabbing the corners of her mouth then _doing it all again_.

And despite the swirling revulsion, no matter the echoing scream of every etiquette master he’d ever had, Draco wants to sit here and buy all the slices so he can watch her eat them with her hands and clean her fingers with that sweet candy pink tongue all day – fascinatingly artless and alluring.

Feeling heat bloom in his face, Draco addresses himself to his own lunch, cutting into the doughy concoction with deliberate, precise strokes. His first taste is hard to swallow. It’s obvious the ingredients are not fresh – the cheese not nearly as melted as it appears, the sauce holding a strange aftertaste that reminds him of ink, and the dough is tasteless with the consistency of thick parchment.

He eats the rest quicker than he usually allows, if only to be polite. Granger seems to love this . . . tripe. He resolves to bring her to Italy one Tuesday to sample the genuine article, and this time, he’ll be wearing loose trousers.

When the slice is gone, her fingers shining with leftover grease and her top lip smeared slightly with red sauce, Draco has the insane urge to kiss her. Panicked, he bites his lip and immediately stands to take their tray to the rubbish bin before making a b-line for the loo. He knows bemused brown eyes are watching him silently, confused; but in that moment, he can’t possibly face her. He needs physical distance before he does something potentially damning. It doesn’t even matter that he would rather burn his skin off with fiend fire than actually use a muggle public loo, he doesn’t breathe again untilk he’s safely inside and bracing himself over the basin.

_What am I doing_? It’s a valid question. She had only offered friendship, and here he was – a (somewhat) taken man - flirting and touching and fucking _wanting_ more than he deserves. 

He regards his mirrored countenance, face set and eyes strong. “You’re going to marry Astoria.” He swallows that down despite a bout of sudden nausea, his throat working as his palms slip slightly on porcelain, slick with sweat. “You’re going to put an end to _this_ right now. You’re going to be a good friend to _Hermione_ by ceasing the flirting, touching, and kissing of hands.” He draws his lips back from his teeth, feeling his throat constrict over the directive he means to give himself next. “You will support her when she finally and inevitably decides to date someone else. You won’t scheme to ruin it or get in the way. You won’t let her know you wish it could be you.” <,p> His eyes burn, a suspicious gloss to them, as he repeats with a savage kind of ferocity. “You will be a _good friend_ to her. You will not take from her more than she is willing to give. _You will not fuck this up_.” He breathes it in, washes his hands, walks out to see her waiting near their table. His smile is normal. The empty ache in his heart is not.

***

Something is wrong.

Hermione goes through the motions of steering Pac-man clear of Pinky and toward a power pellet, watching Malfoy out of the corner of one eye.

Since lunch, he’s been quieter than usual, distant – physically as well as mentally and emotionally. It’s like he isn’t even here at all.

She wonders if it’s because she did something, said something. Maybe he figured out she is attracted to him (how could he not when she becomes a blushing, stuttering, uncoordinated mess when he turns on the charm). Maybe he regrets that . . . _moment_ when he kissed her hand (and her brain summarily devolved into something liquid and thoughtless).

Maybe he didn’t want to get her hopes up and decided to dial it down . . . to _zero_. It reminds her so much of Ron – how he would get angry, blow up, then shut her out as if punishing her for disagreeing with him.

Pac-man dies as she accidentally presses the joystick forward instead of left, “Game Over” scrolling over the digital board.

But there had been no argument, no display of temper. He had simply gone to the loo and come back, hands in pockets, eyes trained blank and forward, and nearly non-verbal. She just . . . doesn’t understand what happened and feels shy of asking. There’s still so much . . . baggage between them, she’s uncertain how to navigate these little questions. And uncertain isn’t something Hermione particularly likes to be.

“Would you like to play a round of air hockey?” She points to the table, glowing an unnatural blue under the black light. They are – thankfully – the only two arcade patrons. 

Malfoy shrugs and grunts noncommittally, his eyes looking anywhere but at her. Her skin feels as if a million pins are pricking her everywhere with the growing suspicion it is somehow her fault he’s become this way. 

She heads to the table, fighting the instinct to cry. Even with therapy and her breakthrough, she’s still a veritable watering pot, tearing up over the silliest things. Bending, she deposits the appropriate coinage and waits for the _flick_ of the puck.

Offering a brief explanation of how the game is played, she wills Malfoy to look at her across the table but he just stares at the puck waiting near her striker. She takes a shot and it flies into Malfoy’s goal. He looks around confusedly for a moment until she helpfully tells him to check near his knees.

He places the puck on the table, but before he can serve, she cuts in, vulnerable. “What did I do?”

Surprised, he meets her gaze for the first time in over a half hour. “What?”

“What did I do? Or what happened? You’ve been strange since going to the loo.” She resists the urge to quail under the blacklit glow of his eyes. 

“It’s not you, Granger. You didn’t do anything.” So then, what? He doesn’t deny he’s acting differently; and if it isn’t something she did or said, what then? _How am I supposed to fix this if I don’t know what went wrong?_

He strikes the puck and she barely volleys. They battle for the next points, Malfoy seemingly cool under pressure and using his honed hand-eye coordination to good use, and Hermione all sweat and tight jaw, trying to keep up. 

In the end, Malfoy wins again, looking even unhappier than before. He steps up to her as their scores blink in red numbers above the table. She cranes her neck to better meet his gaze and balls her hands into fists when she feels his fingertips beneath her chin, all of her erupting into goosebumps. 

“Nothing’s wrong, Granger.” He smiles but she can see his eyes, for all he seems to see right through her, are empty. “There’s nothing to fix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could say things get better next chapter, but that would be a lie (for most of it).
> 
> Next chapter: Draco is not dealing with his feelings very well. Hermione suffers for it. Mrs. Granger is Not Happy (tm) and Nagini makes a cameo appearance.


	5. Nut Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the arcade. Draco is a horrible friend. Hermione is doing her best. Nagini makes a cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOkkkaay, I hope everyone had a great holiday season! And if you'd like to read my offering to the dramione community for the Christmas Fest, please see my story "Milk Stains".
> 
> I should say that even though I reviewed and rewrote and reviewed and rewrote and reviewed and rewrote much of this chapter, I am STILL unhappy with it; but I'm at that point that I really don't care anymore because it accomplishes everything I wanted to accomplish even though its trash ^_^
> 
> Also, I am sick <\- literally and just want to get the chapter up damn it.
> 
> TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Angst. Bad Friend Skills. PTSD. Anxiety. Panic Attacks. Also Helen's Helcat/momma bear is out and about.

July 29, 2000 

Draco doesn’t meet Granger for lunch the next week, and he doesn’t plan to meet her the one after that. He doesn’t respond to owls or mobile calls. He saves her messages and visits Astoria and dodges his mother’s questions while burying himself in hirings and firings, business meetings and Ministry dealings.

He spends time in Richard’s garage, carefully avoiding Granger and quailing under Helen’s knowing glare whilst they have tea. He knows it is just a matter of time before Helen decides to step in and confront him about his seeming _second_ abandonment of Hermione.

Of course, she probably knows she doesn’t need to actually say anything. She can probably see the self-incrimination and guilt on his face even when using occlumency. She probably knows, instinctively, how much he hates himself for taking Granger’s offered second chance and treating that precious friendship like rubbish _again_.

What she doesn’t know is that every day Draco feels as if his world is falling apart before his eyes, and he doesn’t know how to stick it all back together. She doesn’t know that he fucking hates looking in the mirror – not only because of the bad decisions he’s made or the sins he’s committed in the name of his blood and family, but now because of the way he’s hurt Granger _again_ – this time because he’s been intentionally careless with the faith and trust she had invested in him when he didn’t . . . doesn’t deserve it.

And he’s _proving_ he doesn’t deserve it.

She doesn’t know that Potter throws him dirty looks in the Ministry halls or that Weasley had to be physically restrained by his little pregnant wife when he spied Draco in Diagon Alley. She doesn’t know that he anticipated the sting of a fist in his face, _wanted_ it even.

That day he had gone to the boxing club and requested a sparring session for the first time. He had blocked only minimally, wanting to hurt as badly if not worse than what he had caused Granger to hurt.

The bruises lasted for days, even using assorted potions and creams. His mother had taken one look at him and cringed, saying nothing. Helen and Richard had asked where the wounds had originated – wanting to make sure he wasn’t in some sort of trouble. _Even while he is hurting their daughter._

_Hermione_ . . . the one glimpse of her he head been gifted, she had started at the sight of him and lifted a hand, taken a step, before subsiding, raising her chin and moving along.

It is unfair of him, but maybe she doesn’t even care? No, that isn’t right. She has consistently owled every day since that lunch visit to the muggle arcade, approaching him in varied ways: asking if he wants to meet to discuss more ideas for the muggleborn transition plan, inquiring about his efforts to hunt and dispose of Malfoy held dark objects, inviting him to tea or meals to catch up, . . . even offering to meet him in Diagon Alley if he no longer feels comfortable in muggle London.

It is this last that twists the proverbial knife lodged in his ribs – a knife he has stabbed into himself. He is well aware Granger has not yet gathered the courage to once again step on wizarding soil. That she would offer to possibly sacrifice her mental well-being for him is at once humbling and alarming. 

No one – besides, perhaps, his mother – has ever put his interests above their own, and even his mother had done so with conditions attached. 

“I have asked her to stop trying with you.” Helen states calmly with a palpable sort of finality as she takes a long drag of tea, sitting casual and relaxed across the dining table, one forearm resting on the edge.

He swallows, nodding.

“Would you like to tell me what is going on?” Her voice has a strange thready quality, as if there is something caught in her throat. He imagines it is her stoppered anger with him.

Sifting his hands through his hair, he opens his mouth only to close it, deflating. “I . . . I don’t . . . I—it’s nothing.”

She looks about as convinced if he told her the sky is red. “Right. Everything is just fucking _perfect_. What a wonderful explanation for you wallowing in a stew of your own making.” Her stare is a piercing arrow cutting to the quick of him. “Please. Do be kind enough to let my daughter know when you have extricated yourself from whatever self-flagellation you are currently involved in.”

“Helen, I –”

“And please, _Lord Malfoy_ , do let her know that she is _not at fault_ for your sudden distance and this silent treatment you have treated her so _generously_ to.”

Apparently, Helen’s silence has come to an end, her need to castigate a perceived felon finding its voice. Draco pulls at his hair and grunts, freezing when footsteps sound on the stairs behind him. 

Granger’s voice is like the most fucking beautiful music he’s ever heard and he wants more than anything at that moment to be deaf. “Mum? Why did you _owl_ me to come downstairs, we’re in the same h—” Her sharp intake of breath, no doubt means she’s seen him.

Draco’s eyes snap to Helen’s aggressive smile, accusing. (When did she send a bloody owl? Fuck, when did the Grangers _own_ a bloody owl?)

That forceful smile, those piercing hazel eyes – Helen gestures toward the chair to Draco’s right. “Please. Sit, Hermione, dear.” It isn’t really a request. Draco’s heart flutters like a particularly agitated bird.

He can hear her reluctant shuffle, perceives her shadow passing to his side before he gets a good look at her, petite and pale and bloody perfect with her hair tied back haphazardly, dressed in an oversized t-shirt and gray leggings. Pure fucking torture.

She seems quite entranced by the wood grain of the table surface, her eyes fixed on one point and never straying, even when her mother asks if she would like some tea, biscuits, anything to eat really. Granger just sits unmoving, eyes glued to the wood work. 

Stirring her tea, Helen blithely suggests, “Thank you for joining us, love. I believe Draco has a few things he would like to say to you.”

Draco just gapes at the matron, hands balled into fists on his lap. He detects a slight movement to his right. Granger is still contemplating the table top as if it contains the answers to every mystery her brain has ever tried to untangle, hands in her lap, elbows tucked close to her body.

She’s making herself as small as humanly possible, and he hates himself for causing it.

He thinks back, to that moment at the shopping centre when he became addicted to the zinging sensation snapping along his fingertips as he touched her skin; when he kissed her hand and cataloged the scent of her; to seeing her smile, punctuated by a smear of red sauce, and wanting – more than anything – to taste those lips; and the resignation – the world-worn acceptance – reflected in her eyes as she tried to find out _what she had done_ to cause him to pull away.

He had heard her say it. He had seen it in her eyes that she wanted to _fix it_ but somehow still managed to ignore the fact she was _blaming herself_ for his decisions and behavior. Even Helen, just moments ago, had intimated that Granger thought he was blaming her and giving her the silent treatment -- for what?

Because he couldn’t be around an intelligent, interesting, kind, beautiful woman without wanting more than a platonic relationship? He swallows thickly. Once again, he is making her pay for _his_ character deficiencies, punishing her for _his_ weakness.

_She deserves so much better._

Even at Hogwarts he had thought so, when her idiot friends would excommunicate her for whatever reason. He remembers, in particular, the months of watching her trek with her lunch to Hagrid’s hut during third year, head down and lips worry-bitten. Often returning with swollen eyes and hastily marred tear tracks carved into her cheeks.

“Listen, _Hermione_ –”

He shuts up when she stands abruptly, turning toward him with a wan smile and shuttered eyes. “It’s fine, Malfoy. I understand. I’m grateful that you humored me for so long.”

She closes her eyes and exhales. “Truly, you went above and beyond as I’ve been told by many that I’m not a very likeable person . . . Ron even called me a ‘nightmare’ once.” 

When she moves to leave, he gets to his feet and reaches for her uncovered wrist, startled when she violently pulls it back, a flash of red catching his eye. “Hermione. I wanted to say that I –”

Her hand is gingerly cupping the unhealable wound his aunt left on her. “It’s fine. Really. No harm done. And – if you like – I can return the bank draft you sent for the transition. It’s really no trouble; and please don’t think I would begrudge you my parents’ company. I’m sure they would still love to see you, and –”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, HERMIONE, I’M TRYING TO SAY I’M SORRY!!!” His eyes are only for her as he realizes that after only nearly three months, she’s bewitched him. He doesn’t want to think about living another day without hearing her voice or seeing her face. 

Helen’s spoon clatters in the ensuing silence. 

Silence that is further broken by a crash of something falling followed by a litany of cusswords. Helen calmly rises and makes her way out of the dining room with an, “I’ll just leave you to it then.”

“Well,” Granger tries, fidgeting uncomfortably, “that was needlessly dramatic.” She doesn’t say so but he has a feeling it’s more aimed at him. He doesn’t really disagree.

He suddenly knows, taking her in with her little bare feet and her insane hair and big eyes and exquisitely impertinent nose, that he’s most likely falling in love with her. There’s simply no other explanation for the strength, depth and quality of his feelings. He reflects upon the realization with a desperate kind of inevitability, knowing also that he needs to maintain a distance between them. Decorum is paramount as he fully plans to unravel the tangle of his engagement and his mother and the business and fucking _everything_. Not that it matters if he’s successful with any of it.

There’s simply no way she would ever feel the same; and . . . he . . . he can live with that as long as she’s in his life.

“I wasn’t lying when I told you that you had done nothing.” He runs his hands through his already mussed hair then holds out his hands as if he can do nothing else but offer himself as is. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m pretty well damaged, Granger.”

She blinks and takes a step back, bringing her arms up to hug herself. “So am I.”

“I . . . had an irrational thought and overreacted. I’m sorry you were caught in the middle of it. I haven’t been in the right state of mind to . . . socialize.”

Nodding slowly, she grips the back of one chair with tight, white knuckles. “Then . . . I’m sorry too. In addition to “nightmare,” I’ve also been accused of being a nag . . . I should have taken the hint when you didn’t respond the first few times.”

How is it that he can feel utter and total adoration for this woman and want to throttle her at the same time?

“You are neither unlikeable nor a nag. Who the fuck filled your head with that shite?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I don’t have many friends, Malfoy.” It’s not an answer, but it’s spoken with so much sass, he doesn’t even try to stop his face from contorting into what is – no doubt – a lovesick kind of smile. 

“Neither do I.”

She smiles back. He imagines he can taste the sweet tang of her easy mercy – all the more satisfying for how contemptible he is for accepting it without effort. “I don’t mean to pry . . . what was the irrational thought?”

“Who called you unlikeable and a nag?” It’s blatant deflection though he’s genuinely curious. He knows it wasn’t himself. It was probably that fucking Weasel. 

Her expression is so open and honest he almost feels guilty to witness it. “Does it really matter? My point is that I don’t have many friends so I treasure the ones I do have. That now includes you.” A thrill coils and springs as she blushes, raising her chin as if daring it to lower further. It does. “I like and care about you, _Draco_. Next time, please just tell me you need some space. Don’t . . . don’t just shut down. Harry and – especially – Ron used to do that when we had a disagreement, and I didn’t have many places to turn to when they did.” She lowers her hands to hold at her front. “This . . . with you, felt even worse.”

_Bleeding Christ_ , is she always like this? Wearing her bleeding heart on her sleeve for all and sundry to read the blood stains? Lucius (and a younger Draco) would not hesitate to use and manipulate that offered vulnerability. Post-war Draco only wants to take it in his hands and shield it, nurture it, and earn the trust she freely gave.,p> He is under no illusions. She has every right and reason to scream in his face that he has fucked up this chance and she never wants to see him again. He knows just how lucky he is that she has seemingly decided to forgive him _again_. (Of course, he supposes this trespass is a might more acceptable than calling her derogatory slurs, treating her as subhuman, actively wishing and working toward her demise, and watching silently as she was tortured and maimed). 

And then it catches up with him. Potter and Weasel do this sort of thing to her. Potter and Weasel are silent when they are angry with her. Potter and Weasel ignore her when they disagree with her (most likely spot on advice or opinion). This just confirms his long held conviction that Potter and Weasel are fucking idiots. 

Draco resolves to never, ever ignore her again, regardless of how badly he wants to snog her.

“I won’t do it again. You have my word.”

She beams up at him and rocks up on the balls of her feet. “Well, then. As a celebration of our truce and the continuance of our Tuesday muggle activities, how do you feel about doughnuts for lunch and maybe a game of mini-golf?”

“Doe – what and what?” It is like she is speaking another language.

Settling back on her heels, she explains, “I . . just have a lot to talk to you about so – if you’re free – we can do something completely irresponsible and dine on fried dough and probably buckets of sugar then tap a ball around through various obstacles to sink it in eighteen different holes.”

He hums a small laugh even though his insides are shaking at the thought of being alone with her. “And your kind think quidditch is strange.”

Her scowl is just as adorable as her blush, he thinks fondly. “Quidditch _is_ strange and – more importantly – _dangerous_.”

“Dangerous and _fun_.”

She rolls her eyes at him, one hand smacking his arm before she blows her hair out of her eyes. “Well? Are you busy?”

“No.” If he is going to do this, be her friend, he needs to make an effort to meet her halfway . . . to allow himself to be . . . honest, forthright . . . exposed. “And, even if I was, I would clear my schedule for you, Granger.” 

Blushing and pleased, she points to the stairs. “I’ll just fetch my shoes and cardigan, shall I?”

As she runs up the stairs, Helen returns with a pile of men’s clothes that look and smell like they’ve been steeped in sewage. Richard is truly an artist when it comes to rebelling against recreational cleanliness.

Draco watches as she disappears into the garage, reappearing with her hands held before her as if she would prefer to lop them off. “Rekindled your association, did you?” Her expression belies deep disappointment that he cannot parse fully.

He nods warily. Reading a room is a natural talent he has honed through countless hours of political and business training (as well as the trial-by-fire of Slytherin House), and right now, what he is sensing from Helen is volatile. 

Helen laughs over the squeal of a running faucet. “Everything settled, then?”

“I think so,” Draco tries to mask the satisfaction in his voice. “I think Gran- _Hermione_ plans to celebrate us surviving our first row.”

The faucet goes silent then there is Helen passing into the dining room, a tea towel between her hands. “Could that even be considered a row? Did you even actually fight?”

“No . . . but I was still an arse.”

One brow is raised as she gives him an intense once over that leaves him feeling uncomfortably emotionally naked. “It’s good that you can admit it. Do you want to talk about it before she comes down?”

He would like to – come clean about how he never meant for this to happen. How – when he had taken Hermione’s hand that day in the bistro and introduced himself a second time – he had only wanted a friendship. Simple. Pleasant. Uncomplicated. 

Draco isn’t even really certain when he began noticing her . . . . Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, he isn’t even really certain when he began noticing her to this degree as an attractive, available woman. He isn’t sure how his emotions had become twisted up with this new physical awareness.

He had never meant to develop this affection. He had never meant to desire her.

Because he’s engaged and neck-deep in white-collar intrigue and trying – desperately – to reconnect with his mother on _some_ level when he’s not drowning in self-loathing and continuing to punish himself for every wrong decision and horrible act.

Because he’s just –

“I’m not ready. To talk about it.”

Helen surveys him seriously, her mouth relaxed, her eyes bright and solemn. “Fair enough.”

Granger reappears just then, shoes on and cardigan covering her arms, her smile somehow tentative and shy and luminescent all at once. “Ready?”

_No._ Why couldn’t Astoria look at him this way? Why couldn’t he feel this . . . pure, uproarious sort of anticipation, ease, and . . . _happiness_ with her? Because that’s what it is, he realizes. Being with Hermione – even just the thought of time with her – makes him . . . happy.

The realization, like the urge to kiss her weeks ago, drives into his abdomen, empty and cold. This . . . this contentedness . . . this feeling of safety and peace and precious joy isn’t for him. He’s done and seen too much. And he won’t weigh her down with the knowledge of these unwanted, undeserved emotions. 

Today, he’ll have the dough . . . things and play the weird muggle game with her and he’ll smile and laugh and pretend his arms don’t ache for the want and need to hold her close and keep her for himself. But tomorrow, he’s going to visit Astoria and they will talk of the bonding ceremony and set a date even though just the thought of bonding with her makes him want to peel his skin off with his nails.

He forces a smile. “Ready.”

***

Between the two of them, the box of a dozen doughnuts are completely demolished with Hermione eating four and Draco polishing off the remaining eight. They wash it all down with a thermos of tea her mother packed before they left. He doesn’t even complain about eating in the car though he insists on holding the confection with a napkin to keep his fingers clean and a mountain of more serviettes to preserve his expensive clothing. 

“You really are a snob when it comes to food and table etiquette.” She can’t help but giggle as he gingerly wipes at his lips after every. Single. Bite. 

He shoots her a disgruntled look. “I have _standards_ , Granger. You have simply surrounded yourself with unmannered louts until now. I’ve seen the way the Weasel eats. I’m not surprised you find my impeccable conduct amusing.”

Hermione chuckles even as she kills the car engine and makes to get out, only to find Draco already opening the door for her. Blushing a little and torn between being impressed he moved so fast and telling him she is more than capable of exiting a car herself, she mumbles her thanks as they gather the rubbish from the car to drop it in a bin. 

“Tell me about this game with sticks and holes.” It’s a ridiculously hot day, and Draco is dressed in a long sleeve dress shirt, suit pants and tie. She wonders briefly if she should suggest transfiguring his clothes into something more weather appropriate. She also worries his stomach will sour, full as it is of dough, sugar and tea.

She explains as much as she can before they pay for entry and receive their putters and balls – she grabs the green before he can and laughs in his face when the only other color available he’s willing to suffer is red.

As they approach the first hole, she demonstrates how to hold and swing the putter with much drama and expounds on the meaning of par, pointing out signs near each hole as well as the score card.

He begins shakily, but quickly figures out why she spends so much time setting up her shots – getting on her knees and using her putter as a targeting sight. By the fifth hole, he’s mastered the hole-in-one, gloating when she finds herself racking up par counts.

Everything is fine, and she’s grateful for it. Conversation flows freely, and they are both at ease – joking and taking the mickey with one another more fluidly than before. She tells him of how – during his absence – she not only finished knitting two baby blankets, seven kimonos, and three caps, she also completed the first draft of her book and would very much appreciate not only his opinion but his mother’s as well.

He reacts with an appropriate level of excitement and an unexpected measure of pride, telling her, “Of course. You don’t even have to ask.” 

This segues into her asking after his mother – is she well? How is she dealing with his father’s continued imprisonment? Does she get many visitors? 

Draco seems uncomfortable with the subject; but tells her that while he and his mother are not necessarily estranged at the moment, they are not very close anymore. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to read between the lines: his mother must not approve of the company he now keeps nor the path he now walks. 

He clears his throat as they walk over to hole ten. “I moved out a few days ago. She wasn’t happy. I didn’t want to entertain her tantrum.” 

Hermione sets up her shot, laying close to the ground, gauging the angle and strength of her swing. “She must be quite lonely.” _You must be too._

He doesn’t say anything to that, and she doesn’t want to pry too deeply lest he become skittish and ignore her again, this time for a month or more. “How goes the no-longer-secret corporate take-over?”

It had finally made the Daily Prophet – front page – with few details about how Draco had accomplished so much in so little time while dedicating quite a bit of print space to speculation about his plans for the company, considering a downward trend in profits.

“All according to plan, Granger.” Is all he offers, taking position to putt the ball through the revolving blade of a miniature windmill. He sinks the shot, and she stomps her foot at his reticence.

“I’m here to help if you need it you know.” She says as she waits for a group to finish up at hole eleven, standing with her back to him. “I mean if you need someone to . . . talk about . . . things. I’ve read the same books that you have, so –“ The weight of his hand is hot on her shoulder and sends a tremor through her hands. 

“Thank you, Granger.” His breath is on her neck. She closes her eyes as she knows he can’t see. “I’ll be sure to take you up on the offer.” 

She nods, unable to form words in her brain let alone her vocal chords. 

“In fact,” he continues, “if you promise not to tell anyone, I am in the middle of a new business venture.” He glances, sidelong, in her direction, anticipating. 

Suspecting this unexpected glimpse into his life is a boon for the previous prattishness of ignoring her, she eagerly agrees. 

He tells her – at first haltingly, obviously not accustomed to sharing – that once the upheaval at Malfoy Holdings has settled, he intends to step down as CEO though he will retain a substantial amount of power over operations on the executive board as a major shareholder. It’s a trade he’s willing to make so that his time is fully his to devote to his passion: A new company, _Verus Apothecary_ , specializing in cosmetic and health potions marketed to both the wizarding _and_ muggle populations. At the moment, when he isn’t dealing with the mess Lucius left behind, he is in the potions lab formulating a new product line geared toward muggles called _Like Magic_.

“We’re presently still in development for a quarter of the products; and when I’m not personally overseeing potion formulation, I’m working privately on a . . . . little secret project.” Draco isn’t looking at her as he talks, but his profile suggests a strangely tentative pride, as if he knows deep down this accomplishment is his but feels he must hold back in expressing it outwardly. Her impulse to ask about the secret itches at the back of her throat; however, she chooses not to pester him. 

If there is one thing she has learned about Draco Malfoy it is that he has many secrets, but when he is ready, he will usually reveal them on his own.

Hermione takes his near hand and congratulates him, praises him. At Hogwarts, while she had bested him in potion-making, he had always been quite a bit ahead of her in potion theory. “That’s amazing, Draco. I’ll be looking forward to seeing this new product line. I imagine you have a few distributors lined up.” 

Almost shyly, he tells her he does, but nothing is concrete just yet. Contracts are still being negotiated so he doesn’t want to jinx anything by talking about it prematurely. She smiles at him, so happy for him and willing his success. She knows from prior conversation that Draco’s seeming confidence as a youth had been a hollow thing – a faded reflection of _his father’s_ power and legacy. He had always wanted to create something himself, something he could be proud of. As she takes in the glimmer in his eye and the slight flush in his cheeks, she knows with absolute certainty, “Everything will work out just wonderfully, you’ll see.” Tentatively – because she doesn’t want to overstep, “And . . . if you ever need an ear or help, you can –“

“Talk to you.” His lop-sided grin is so boyish, she can’t help but grin back, a small giggle escaping her in relief. “I know.”

As they continue playing, Draco fumbles the next two holes bringing their scores to tie. They also discuss how Hermione is appreciative of Draco’s plan to share wizarding potions with the muggle populace as she has always been struck by the opposite - wizarding kind’s reluctance to adopt muggle technologies. 

Certainly there is the Statute of Secrecy; however, she isn’t the first or only muggle-born and there is – at least – nearly as many half-bloods as pure bloods, how is it that not a single muggle innovation – regardless of its value – has never been adapted to wizarding households, healing, government or administration? Suddenly and internally she realizes her initiatives in muggle-born transition might be a harder sell than she had originally anticipated. 

Draco tells her that it most likely has to do with the fact that it is purebloods – and largely – pureblood supremacists that run things and they most likely ignore or dismiss anything of muggle origin out of hand. 

“Wizarding society, I’ve come to realize, is exceptionally conservative and insular.” She is quick to qualify that muggles can be so too about some things, and then – because he has been open with her – tentatively admits that _she_ is having trouble with her pitch to muggle-born families, particularly since she has seen no way around mentioning the recent war. 

Draco watches her for a long moment before shaking his head with a sigh, “You really don’t like asking for help, do you?”

“You’re one to talk, conducting a corporate coup single-handedly.”

“Not single-handedly. All I really did was read contracts, write correspondence, and formulate a plan. The heavy lifting was done by people I explicitly trusted to follow my instructions to the letter. It’s called delegating.”

She huffs, “I know very well what delegating is. I simply have no one to delegate to.”

He tells her you don’t hook a potential client by advertising vulnerabilities. She counters that to keep the vulnerable ignorant would be irresponsible at the least and cruelty at worst. 

“Honestly,” he says, swinging his putter at the red ball and missing to the music of her laughter. “You’re a horrible sales person.”

Her jaw drops, and it isn’t because he gets a hole-in-one. “I most certainly am n—“

“Might I remind you of how successful your spew campaign was?” His look is pointed with a fair serving of cheek. The incorrigible git.

She seethes, stomping over to the tee and dropping her ball, setting her shoulders as she lines the shot. “It was S. P. E. W. Not spew. Not _ever_ , Ronald Weasley Jr.” She sinks her shot to the counterpoint of his infuriated growl.

“Never again call me by that foul name, _Granger_.”

“Would you prefer _Ferret_?” The moment it leaves her lips, she wonders if she has made a mistake, but he throws back his head and laughs freely.

It’s at once comfortable and strange, this . . . teasing comradery. Briefly, she wonders if it is a subconscious way of distancing themselves from the one-sided estrangement of the last week . . . to make a connection that once wasn’t there, to somehow strengthen a bond that was built on weak foundations. 

They continue playing. Holes fourteen and fifteen she gets par while Draco struggles still. It’s just enough so that they are neck and neck in score. She grins at the score card as they walk the path to the next hole. 

“Have you spoken to Potter or Weasel lately?” He suddenly asks and the question throws her. In general, when he mentions either it’s to denigrate them in some small way. 

“No, no I haven’t. Not in person, anyway. I actually see Aria more frequently lately; though we owl each other fairly regularly and Harry has a mobile.” She stops, taking in his intent expression. “Did something happen?”

He looks away, “Not at all. Just wondering.”

Which, in turn, makes her wonder. “Have you heard from any of your friends . . . from Hogwarts, I mean?” This, she knows, is a sensitive subject. She doesn’t ask often though she’s constantly searching the pages of the Prophet for mentions of the other surviving Slytherins from her year whom either dodged Azkaban, were neutral or worked for the Order.

He starts, “No, Granger. Why do y—“ It’s not just the way that he stops that makes her look at him, it’s the sudden catch and wheeze of his breath, the way his hand grasps onto her mutilated arm and squeezes till it burns like it did when the knife cut into her skin, till her bones groan with the pressure.

“Malfoy?” She whimpers and he jerks her by the arm to press closer. His body is hard, tense and she can feel an excessive heat, the smell of sweat and fear wafting from him. Indeed, the damp of his palm has soaked through her cardigan to her skin and into her wounds. 

He quiets her, his eyes nearly full black with dilation, as he guides her to step back. Through his hand, she can feel the acceleration of his heart rate. She notes the waxen pallor of his skin, the cold sweat dripping down the side of his face and the speed of his inhales and exhales.

If he doesn’t calm down, he’ll be hyper-ventilating and unconscious in moments.

She looks around to see what could be triggering him, and as she scans to her left, she sees it. A fucking giant black snake. It is coiled and waiting at hole sixteen, several feet away and completely inert. Made of plaster and paint.

“It’s not real.” She whispers, trying to get her diaphragm to cooperate with her in the face of Draco’s panic. “Draco . . . Draco, _it’s not real_.” She tries to step in front of him, but his grip is strong and sure, keeping her behind so his body can _shield hers_.

Dear God, she had heard of what that thing had done to Burbage. Had Draco witnessed it? Had he seen someone _consumed_ by Nagini?

She didn’t notice before, but his wand is out and people are looking at them with no small interest. If she doesn’t diffuse this situation, management will be called and they might get kicked out . . . the Ministry might come and Draco may be fined or, worse, arrested.

“ _Draco_.” She twists her trapped arm, hissing at the way the cuts of flesh split just a little more against the pressure of his hold, leaving bloodstains on his skin. When that doesn’t work, she quickly steps under his arm and grasps at his shirt. It’s soaked through with cold sweat. His eyes, glancing down at her, are wild and unseeing, echoing the strain of his muscles. “Draco, look at me, please.”

He shushes her, whispering breathlessly, “He’ll kill you if he finds you here, Granger. Then he’ll have it . . . have you –” Tears spring to her eyes as he sobs, his torso collapsing to rest his forehead against hers. 

She blinks rapidly to clear her eyes and thoughts. It would be best if she could move him somewhere away from the snake, but she doesn’t think he’s in a state to move on his own or be persuaded. “Draco, I need you to listen to me. That isn’t Nagini. Neville killed her, remember? At Hogwarts. It isn’t real. It’s just a sculpture. See? It isn’t moving or making any sound. It didn’t attack those people there. It hasn’t attacked anyone since we’ve been here. _It’s not real_.”

“Not real?”

She touches his face, wipes his tears. “No. No, it’s not real. I’m real, okay.” She takes his wand hand and places it on her cheek as best she can before returning her palm to his. “I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

There are shadows in his eyes, dark and difficult to see through, she knows. He looks so heartbreakingly uncertain, so different from his usual controlled stoicism; but he still finds the strength to nod as she begins to direct and count his breathing.

He has a tight hold on her arm again. It throbs and burns and stings. She knows she’s bleeding again, and that he’ll probably distance himself from her again out of embarrassment and anger at himself once he sees it. As his breathing becomes more stable, and his muscles begin releasing from that anxiety induced tension, his body trembles, great shaking tremors that feel violent against her.

She steps closer, easing her arm from his hold so that she can embrace him – for the very first time. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. I promise.” She lays her head on his chest and wraps her arms around him tightly, listening to his heart, counting the beats as it slowly returns to a normal rate. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He clings to her, his arms coming around her shoulders as he buries his face into her neck. She can hear people murmuring as they pass, but she doesn’t care. She just holds him, hopefully giving him the same sense of containment Luna had once given her. 

Draco’s body is like an all-encompassing furnace, and there are tendrils of her own panic flirting with her gut that she is going to be suffocated or cooked to death. But she stays where she is, rubbing her hand slowly around his broad back, articulating her fingertips deeply into the hard slabs of muscle there, trying to get him to relax. She rises up on her toes every few minutes, kneading into the back of his neck, kissing his cheeks and eyelids and telling him, over and over, “You’re safe. I’m here with you. You’re safe. That snake isn’t real.”

He chokes a stuffy, almost watery sounding, humorless laugh. “I know. I know.” He tenses to leave her but she tightens her arms around him, more than aware he could break the embrace should he choose to. “Thank you, _Hermione_.”

His hair is like silk threads against her fingers, his heat tempering to a pleasant warmth though the sweat has made their squeeze just this side of damp and sticky. Hermione hides a relieved smile against his arm. “You’re welcome, Draco.”

Hoarsely, he murmurs in her ear, “Can we stay like this for a bit?” It’s such an unexpected request from him she immediately nods. He gathers her up a little more neatly, tucking her into him until she’s comfortable and his arms seem to cradle every vulnerable part of her.

“Do . . . do you want to touch it?” She murmurs to him, the cloth of his shirt muffling her words.

“Touch what?”

“The . . . statue. Prove it isn’t real.”

He pulls away slightly only to straighten his back. As he looks down at her, she notes the rough state of his hair and the streaky pale of his face, the heavy-lidded eyes and overripe color of his lips. “Maybe another time.” He sighs tiredly even as his hands tighten on her body. “I’m very . . . exhausted all of a sudden.”

She nods, breathing deeply, taking in his scent, grateful he was okay. “Panic attacks are draining. Do you want to go home?”

Slowly, carefully, he disentangles himself from her and pockets his wand. His countenance seems normal – apathetic and steady, unruffled, though she can still feel the ghost of tremors running through his joints when his hands find and clasp hers. “I think it’s best we leave.”

As they shuffle back toward the entrance (Hermione doesn’t want to force Draco to cross the snake), Hermione’s stomach tightens and her throat burns with acid. This is her fault. She had been the one to suggest doing this.

“Hey,” Draco’s fingers slip under her chin, urging her head up and to the side to meet his eyes. “Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking.”

She swallows down her guilt as best she can for the sour taste. “Dra – Malfoy –”

“Draco is fine, Hermione.” 

Nodding perfunctorily, she flashes a smile at him. “Draco . . . you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to but . . . I . . . its something I’ve wondered about for awhile now, and I think – after today – it would be appropriate to ask.”

He sighs heavily releases her hand, noticing for the first time, the blood staining his palm and her sleeve. His eyes widen as they turn to her over the roof of the car. “Hermio—”

But she doesn’t want to hear it. She’s fine. Her arm isn’t any worse off than it was before. She’s much more worried about him. “Have you talked to anyone? About the war?” She ducks down to take her seat behind the steering wheel to meet narrowed silver eyes just a few inches away.

“Let me see your arm.”

“My arm is fine.” She summons a moist toilette from the depths of her beaded bag and hands it to him. “To clean the blood from your hand.” She watches him wipe his hands as she rolls up her stained sleeve. The letters are ill defined due to the renewed irritation, swelling, and fresh blood. A few letters have new offshoots where the skin tore a little, giving way under pressure. “Please answer the question.”

He’s staring, face open and pained, at the proof of what she had been to him not so long ago. “Question?”

Hermione inserts the key and turns the ignition, feeling the familiar cough and purr of the engine starting. “The war. Have you talked to anyone about it?” She suspects he hasn’t, not only because she’s found he’s not the type to share vulnerabilities willingly but because he doesn’t have many ready and willing confidantes.

She also suspects that – right now – she is his only wizarding friend. 

He doesn’t answer, staring straight ahead with shuttered, heavy-lidded eyes. “I don’t want to talk about the war.”

On the radio, the faint strains of Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War” plays on like a movie soundtrack. “I know.” She wants to touch him but his body language is closed and she doesn’t want to spook him anymore today. “I didn’t want to talk about it either.” Pausing to collect her thoughts, she glances at him and decides to throw caution to the wind. “Would you . . . maybe want to attend . . . therapy . . . with me?” She clears her throat unnecessarily, her palms slick on the wheel. “Dr. Ufuoma is a witch so . . . you wouldn’t have to watch what you say or anything.” A breath, “Or . . . if you want, you could talk to me . . . “

He turns his head to look out the passenger window and doesn’t say anything the rest of the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, throw me your death threats, I shall print them out and use them as spit tissues while I cough up my other lung. XD
> 
> But - seriously - TRUST ME.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER! Another interlude in which Hermione returns to the wizarding world which hasn't changed at all; She also visits Hagrid!; Draco has a date with Astoria; Hermione's aunts makes their debut!


	6. Interlude II:   Soup and Salad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets with the Hogwart's Board of Governors then visits Hagrid; Draco and Astoria have a date; Helen has a 'Mum's Night Out' with her sisters-in-law aka Hermione's aunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> This chapter is one of my favorites. I'm not sure why but I think it has a lot to do with Hagrid *LOL* I hope I got his dialect down, please let me know!
> 
> Triggers: anxiety, panic attacks, blatant prejudice (of the pureblood supremacist variety), unwanted paparazzo, misogyny, drunken behavior (but not destructive)

August 10, 2000

It’s the day of reckoning. Hermione rises after a night of no sleep and much tossing and turning. Her hair is a wretched reflection of her unrest, the bloodshot tinge of her eyes and the dark swelling of her bottom lids are symptoms of her nervousness. 

She stumbles into her private bathroom; performs her usual toilet; tames her hair with a bottle and a half of product as well as about fifty pins; and dabs, rubs, swipes, blends, and contours a plethora of cosmetics – both muggle and magic – onto her skin to manufacture – at once – a youthful glow, a mask of maturity, and a prettier version of herself.

Skipping breakfast, she brews some tea and pours over her notes, diagrams, and presentation materials to double and triple check that her arguments, suggestions, research and pedagogy are sound and well-formed. (She had reviewed everything with Harry, Mrs. Weasley, her mother, Aria and Draco to get a variety of view points; however, one last revision wouldn’t hurt.)

There are twelve members chairing the Hogwarts Board of Governors. A few years ago, the body was made up entirely of pure-bloods, a majority of whom were past or future Death Eaters with Lucius Malfoy as one of the more influential members. Today, the Board is still of pure-blood majority with two seats going to half-bloods, one to a muggle-born and the last chaired by a squib. 

None – to her knowledge – were Death Eaters though she suspects a few were Voldemort sympathizers. Still, Hermione hopes the ladies and gentlemen of the Board will be open-minded and offer a fair hearing. She’s optimistic they will if only because she knows no better. (Draco had suggested contacting each member before hand via owl with an introduction to her proposal and a request to meet in person to discuss further; however, she had felt such action to be heavy-handed, wanting the presentation to stand on its own merit before an unbiased and untapped Board.)

Time slips by unnoticed as it usually does when she is hyper-focused on revising, and before she knows it, the timer she’s set dings a little tune. She gathers her materials, her old texts and note cards feeling altogether strangely under-prepared despite working on this for months. 

As she packs everything into her beaded bag, she tries not to think of where she is going or how she’s going to get there. She makes a point of ignoring the slight shaking of her hands and the way her heart seems to flutter in agitated half-beats and stops. Wiping sweat from her brow, she buries the sudden need to wake her parents and be held. 

Counting her breaths, she slings her bag across her torso, smooths her hair one more time and raises her wand to apparate. Though she’s apparated before, recently even, the feeling of being stretched thin and pressed flat and pulled from the center then swirled will never be something she becomes accustomed to or fond of. 

She vomits the pot of tea she had for breakfast behind the stone wall nearby – having landed in a small cobblestone alleyway, careful of her shoes and holding her bag out of the way. 

When she feels more or less stable, she straightens, raises her chin just a touch and saunters out into a thoroughly unexpected mass of people calling her name and firing flash bulbs. 

Suddenly, she is back on the battlefield, confused and frantic with spell fire erupting all around her in reds and greens and violets. Smoke is acrid in her nose, barely covering the smell of blood and death. She’s so tired, all nerves and sweat and pain and fear. She’s so tired of being hated and attacked and having to fight just for the right to exist. 

Was this how Dean had felt before he found out he was half-blood? The Creevys? Were they as tired as she was – particularly in the face of loss? What about Lily Potter? Had she been exhausted, trying to prove herself again and again even though it was acknowledged that she was powerful? 

Tears are falling down her face as she loses all focus on surviving for just a moment and takes in the full devastating carnage and chaos of a society consuming itself. There are bodies running around her, silver masks flashing, spells rebounding, . . . _screams, so much screaming_.

She places her hands over her ears and hums “Imagine” by John Lennon, wishing to be in her childhood bedroom that she may never see again; wanting her parents’ hands that she may never hold again; needing silence and relief from the pain in her bones and the hunger in her belly. 

For a moment, the thought flashes in her mind that death would be a welcome master. 

Shadows encroach upon her peripheral, blurred and all-encompassing. She slowly turns in a circle, feeling displaced and uncertain of what to do. Someone is calling her name from far away. Something hard is settled against her back and head. 

She blinks and – 

“Hermione! Can you hear me?” Harry’s face is all she can see, his verdant eyes roaming over her frantically, his hand grasping hers tightly. The sky is blue and bright beyond him as she realizes she is on the ground. 

“Harry?” She had meant to speak it out loud but apparently, all she has the strength for is a thready whisper. “What happened?” 

He wedges an arm beneath her shoulders to hoist her to sitting, keeping her close. “Not sure, really, but I imagine it was something like a panic attack. A few witnesses said you had just rounded the corner then stopped as if dazed. Then, you just collapsed. Fortunately, my team was already on the way due to the governors’ public nuisance complaint about the press.” Conjuring a cup of water, he hands it to her, noting the continued tremors ravaging her body. “How do you feel?” 

Her chest hurts and her entire body feels weak, there’s the lingering scent of vomit in her nose. “I’m not sure . . . . I guess . . . I guess this will be in the paper tomorrow.” She’s embarrassed and demoralized. Would this incident affect her hearing? Harry had mentioned the governors had made a complaint. How had the press even known she was going to be here today? Unlike most governing bodies, Hogwarts Board meetings were not open to the public. 

“I’ll take care of that.” Harry’s mouth settles into a firm line, his eyes echoing a staid determination she is all too familiar with. 

“Don’t go to any trouble for me, Harry.” She is – of course – more than capable of handling these sorts of things herself. “I think I’m ready to try standing.” 

His arm tightens around her as his wand hand pats around his robes. Blithely, he pulls out a small shiny packet. A chocolate frog. “Eat this first.” 

Hermione snorts. “Really, Harry.” 

Frowning, he places it in her hands. “Now, Hermione.” She shakes her head at him as he nods at her until they both grin. “You gave me quite a fright there.” He says while she chews on rapidly melting chocolate frog (whom only had a half-jump in him, more’s the pity). “I arrived just after your collapse. Seeing you like that on the ground . . . For a moment, I . . . I thought you were dead.” His voice cracks on the word, his eyes turning dark and haunted. 

Unmindful of chocolate smudges, she cups his face in her palms and presses his forehead to hers. “I’m okay, Harry. I have to live long enough to see you married and overrun by ginger-haired babies.” 

He laughs, thought it sounds too high and strained, and nuzzles her. “I love you, you know.” 

“I love you too, although you should have told me about Lucius Malfoy’s threats, and your knowledge of Draco’s vow. Don’t think for one moment I won’t corner you to talk about that one day soon.” He laughs – a more genuine sounding one – as he hauls her up, mindful of her skirt and modesty. 

“You had me cornered at my birthday celebration as I recall. You should have asked then.” 

She tuts at him as her hands brush away as much dirt from her person as she manage. “You’re lucky I have a previous engagement.” Here, she notices the crowd that precipitated her panic attack is gone. Eyes wide and pulse quickening, she whimpers. “Tell me I’m not late.” 

Harry shoots her a wry grin as he wipes the tear tracks from her face and grasps her hand to pull her along. “You’re not, but you will be if we continue just standing around.” 

Hermione’s nervous stomach returns with a vengeance as they get closer to the entryway – two massive metal doors that are embossed with the original Hogwarts crest and – no doubt – date from a time before conventional written history. 

“You know,” Harry starts, squeezing her hand as they contemplate the worn shape of the Ravenclaw eagle (appearing more like a trefoil), “the governors would likely postpone if you need to rest. No one would think less of you.” 

She huffs despite the continued perceived frailty of her legs. “ _I_ would think less of me.” Determinedly and with strong yanks, she straightens her clothes once more, squares her shoulders and raises her chin at a haughty angle. “If not today, when? The school year begins in less than a month.” 

“You really are amazing, Hermione, you know that?” 

“Always with that tone of surprise . . . “ 

He throws his head back and laughs before reaching out to pull the heavy door open for her. “After you, Miss Granger.” 

Hermione blinks confusedly. “You’re coming?” 

Incredulous, Harry pushes his glasses up his nose, “Are you barmy? After what happened only minutes ago, I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He throws her a winning grin as she passes into the building. “Besides, I pulled some strings to be assigned as security.” 

She hugs him as he steps in after her, the door closing behind him. 

***

Hours later, the sun is a little more than half-way across the sky and Hermione is standing in front of a familiar hut with familiar door and most familiar surroundings. There, Fang sleeping with meat scraps visible between his teeth; here, Buckbeak’s paddock littered with straw and fenced quite haphazardly; and this, a tentative knock after pacing for long moments, swatting at flies. 

She doesn’t have to wait long before there is the heavy sound of near-giant booted feet shuffling over a whiny plank floor and then – 

There he is, all wild salt and pepper hair and beard surrounding a dear and jolly face atop a massive and articulate body. “Well, I’ll be! If it int ‘ermione Granger!” 

Something tight and rough that had been sitting, knotted and damaging for a long time finally eases, and Hermione feels she can finally breathe again. Her smile stretches as wide as she can manage, her eyes filling with tears. “Hello Hagrid.” 

He wastes no time taking her up into a warm, all-encompassing hug, and as she settles into his bulk, Hermione reflects that Hagrid is always so careful, always providing just the right amount of pressure to be cozy rather than crushing. His hugs had been a welcome balm during tumultuous times in her life when petty squabbles seemed to take her and her friends on separate (often anger induced) paths. 

Hagrid had been there when everyone else seemed to ignore her, favoring Harry or Ron to the “nightmare” she presented. The gentle half-giant had listened, given her advice (always cutting to the quick of a problem with a simplistic view that felt easy and illogically logical), bore out her tears, and fed her tea and homemade cakes that were hard as rock and about as tasty. She had appreciated every spare minute he gave her, and she had learned so much about magical creatures and life from him. 

Out of all her actions after the war, the one she regrets the most is waiting so long to visit him. She tells him so as he lets her go and dabs his eyes, blows his nose on a pumpkin orange handkerchief, ushering her into the familiar warmth of his hut. There are a few feminine touches now – matching dishware and a few doilies, color and fine fabrics mixed in with the earthy ruggedness of Hagrid’s old things. Apparently, his romance with Madame Maxime had rekindled after the war.

“No need tah be sorry. Yeh had yer parents tah think abou’. And Harry told me yeh weren’ up fer visitin’ wizarding parts fer awhile.” He gestures her to sit as he takes up a kettle and places it on the utterly unseasonal fire and she does, in an overstuffed chair in Gryffindor gold that smells of dirt and fresh meat. She allows her body to sink into Hagrid’s body print, feeling comfortable and at home. “The war changed all o’ us.” He cuts her a slice of treacle tart that looks like it is maybe approaching a turn. “Some of us more ’n others.”

Nodding, she samples the treacle and finds it edible, takes a bigger bite. “How have you been, Hagrid? May I assume Madame Maxime has been a frequent visitor?” She waves a pink pillow resting on a nearby chair.

Hagrid blushes, adorably self-conscious. “Hogwarts is whole again. You lot did a grand job of it, fixin’ it up an’ sealin’ up the Chamber an’ whatnot. The Headmistress McGonagall got me punishment overturned an’ I’m allowed tah ‘ave a wand.” He presents it to her with pride and a flourish, the length of it dwarfed between his large fingers. “Fifteen inches, cedarwood, wi’ a unicorn hair core.”

Hermione claps enthusiastically, wiping her face of happy tears intermittently. “That’s wonderful, Hagrid. And long overdue.” His eyes looked suspiciously wet as well. She thinks that maybe he’s gotten a little weepy every opportunity to drop the news. “I’m sure Madame Maxime is just as proud and happy for you.” She knows she’s laying it on a bit thick, but it’s nice to talk about mundane things like the upcoming school year, new or continuing jobs, falling in love and making house and building families and relationships. Much more preferable to talking about past dark things like the war.

He’s still blushing but she can tell he’s pleased as he brews them each a cuppa, setting out the sugar and milk. “She visits when she c’n, and now tha’ I ‘ave a wand, I c’n learn to apparate. Port keys are a bit much. No’ somethin’ I enjoy, but I make the effort when I c’n.”

Hermione stirs about twice as much sugar as she usually takes into her tea. “I imagine it will be difficult with the school year . . . and both of you teaching.”

“Nothin’ worth havin’ if ya don’ want tah work fer it. We write to each other like mad, we do. And though I’m nah a poet, she always says she loves me letters; and her letters . . . they never fail tah put a smile in me heart.”

Feeling somewhat like a broken record but no less genuine, Hermione reaches out a hand to not-really-cover his. “I’m so very happy for you, Hagrid. You deserve all of the good things.”

He wipes at his eyes as she watches him, feeling warm and light despite the day’s horrid beginning. “And you, ‘ermione? I ‘eard about the meeting with the governors.” He spits the last word, still bitter over the abuses of the past.

“Ah, well,” she waved her hand negligently as if it doesn’t matter even though there is a persistent stinging in her nose and eyes, a hollowness where her guts should be, “it didn’t go as well as it could have.” Understatement. She was still mentally and emotionally reeling from the unexpected backlash of prejudice she had received once the hearing began. “The governors were . . . concerned about some of my proposals.”

She doesn’t know why she is trying to be diplomatic when the entire hearing had seemed a blatant set up. The minority governors had not been informed (or blocked) and ominously absent, and from the very beginning, the attending governors had insinuated that her purpose in proposing all of these changes was to – somehow – incite a muggle-born rebellion of some kind at worst or brainwash students to believe in a supreme muggle culture at best.

When she pointed out that the current pedagogy fosters the continued belief that muggles and muggle-borns are – in all ways – inferior and to be distrusted and feared, she was asked to provide proof of this supposed propaganda. When she provided over ten well-documented examples in the text as well as the lesson plan, they asked her to provide proof that muggles and muggle-borns are not inferior, untrustworthy, and a potential menace.

_Standing before them, her research lying before her in pages and parchment and charts and tagged books, she had looked up at their faces, one at a time and imagined they wore silver masks. Harry had spoken out once or twice and gotten himself removed from the chamber. She was all alone, bearing their biased scrutiny._

_Licking her lips, she had noisily gathered her materials to collect her thoughts before addressing the attending governors before her. “Before I answer your question, I feel I must ask one of my own.”_

_One of the governors rolled her eyes. Another made a gesture as if to say, “Get on with it.”_

_Deliberately, Hermione took out her wand and held it out to them. “I am a muggle-born. I am also a witch. I can be nothing but proud of who and what I am. That being said, I want other witches and wizards – those who did not have the benefit of exploring muggle culture – to understand that muggles are not primitive or savage or bent on hunting witches to burn at the stake. Muggles are simply human. They do not have magic as witches and wizards know it; however, they have made great strides in science, medicine, technology, and art. What they lack in magical knowledge, they have made up in creativity and innovation. This understanding is vital to the evolution of wizarding society and the prevention of another Voldemort.”_

_The governors had flinched when she said that name. The speaker narrowed his eyes at her. “And your question, Miss Granger?”_

_She paused to look at each in turn, noting who seemed dismissive and who seemed interested. “I am muggle-born. I am a witch. I sat the same classes as you did. I learned the same spells. I am – by all accounts of my educators and peers – powerful. I was instrumental in winning the Second Wizarding War. My question then is: Why are you threatened by me and people like me?”_

_The speaker spluttered while the other seven reacted with either muttering anger, nervous confusion, disinterest or intrigue. She continues, “The only difference between us, honored governors, is a fluke of genetics and that I know what genetics actually is. I also have a mobile, can drive a car through muggle London, and can perform most menial tasks by hand – in addition to most other muggle things.”_

_“You are being impertinent, Miss Granger.”_

_“And you are being ignorant, honored Speaker. Muggles outnumber wizards approximately 1,000 to 1 across the globe. It is correct and responsible to respect that ratio. It is, however, folly to cripple our young wizarding folk with continued ignorance. Knowledge is power and –“_

_“You have spoken your piece, Miss Granger. While we are – of course – grateful for your service in the war and the obvious passion you bring to this subject,” he drawled, more irritated than grateful, “you must give us time to deliberate before a vote.” He and the other governors stood perfunctorily, looking down their noses at her. “You shall receive an owl within a day. Thank you for . . . showing up, Miss Granger.”_

It was that parting shot that told Hermione the Speaker most likely tipped off the press – to what purpose, she wasn’t sure though Harry believed it was meant to at once unbalance her before the hearing and provide an impetus for the governors to subvert her efforts in the future, underlining her supposed infamy versus their fairness.

But she doesn’t tell Hagrid this, doesn’t let on how absolutely crestfallen she is that she’s still at the bottom fighting an uphill battle after so long and such loss. 

Because, honestly, she isn’t upset at how she was treated as a muggle-born. At this point in her experience of the magical world, some degree of racism is – sadly – expected. 

No, she’s more upset that she didn’t foresee that her involvement could ultimately be the program’s downfall, that – just by being the one, the _name_ , to orchestrate this idea and presentation and hearing, she is harming the chances of acceptance.

“Don’ worry yerself, ‘ermione. The ol’ codgers might say no now, but they can’ say no to yeh forever. Yer too clever by ‘alf, and I ‘ave every bit o’ faith in yeh.” 

She didn’t agree but forced a smile and sipped her tea. “Thank you, Hagrid. That means a lot to me, truly.”

He asks if she would like another slice of treacle which she declines before he mentions how excited he was to receive an invitation to Harry’s wedding and how lovely it is that Ronald is going to be a da. Hermione braces herself, knowing what’s coming. 

“What abou’ you, luv? Not tha’ there’s any rush.” He pours her another cup of tea, and she adds still more sugar than usual. This isn’t the first time Hagrid has discussed boys with her. He had been her confidante whilst going through puberty, when she was convinced that everyone around her was going mad – the boys for their sudden and utter inability to focus on anything without breasts and the girls for the very worrying decrease in brain activity when a boy glanced at them. Hagrid had been the first person she told about Viktor Krum asking her to the Yule Ball. He had been the first to see through her crush on Ron.

She decides to take a chance . . . that really isn’t a chance because -- “There might be . . . someone. I just don’t know how to approach him . . . or if I even _should_.”

“Bloke would be off his rocker to ignore you, ‘ermione. Do I know ‘im?”

In for a penny, “. . . I . . . It’s . . . oh dear, it’s Malfoy.” She can’t look at him as she stirs her tea with movements so jerky half of it ends up running down her cup and into the chipped saucer beneath.

Hagrid’s entire body seems to pause before he breathes out, grabbing his teacup with both hands, “Oh . . . . Wasn’t expectin’ tha’.”

Wanting to – at once – pull her hair, tangle her arms and hide, Hermione covers her face with her hands and screams, “ _I know!_ I know but he’s not like he used to be at all. I mean, he’s still an entitled, arrogant prat entirely too concerned with table settings but he’s not . . . _mean_ for the sake of it, you know? Not anymore at least.”

Hagrid nods, aiming a half-smile her way, “I’d imagine he’d have ta have grown into a fine bloke for you ta fancy ‘im.” He nods again, “Why don’ ya jest ask ‘im to a date?”

“It’s not that simple. We’ve only just begun to explore what being friends looks like. I don’t want to ruin this chance when everything between us is still new and breakable. Besides, he would probably say no, anyway.” She doesn’t tell him it’s only been a few days since he had inexplicably ignored her for a week for some reason she still isn’t clear about.

“Nonsense! It’s as simple as asking young Malfoy to dinner. An’ if ‘e says no . . . ye can still just be friends. At least then ye’ll know.”

Hermione stares at him for long moments before turning her attention to the rest of her tea. 

***

August 12, 2000

It’s a little passed half nine. Draco is watching Astoria cut her steak with grace and precision, elbows in and off the table, her posture tall and perfect. They are dining at a well-known fine dining establishment in Paris, a maître d’ waiting patiently nearby. The ambiance is exquisitely romantic – low ambient light and whimsical flower arrangements, the walls draped in sweeping swaths of the thinnest silk framed in elegantly carved wood and marble. There is a string quartet playing the classics – light and airy and evocative. 

He should be utterly charmed. He should feel something close to affection for his companion.<,p> In reality, however, Draco is bored out of his mind. 

Astoria is – as always – lovely. Her honey blonde hair is beautifully coifed in a half up do, a shimmering waterfall of perfect curls falling over her bare shoulder. Her champagne colored dress robes twinkle with a liberal spread of star dust woven into the material, and her face is soft and glowing with clean lines, an inviting mouth and - her most striking feature – blue-green eyes blown luminous with candlelight.

She’s . . . gorgeous, and her manners are impeccable. Not once does she sigh or grimace or express any measure of emotion besides a baseline kind of satisfaction. They had run out of things to talk about within fifteen minutes of arrival. Since awkward silence had fallen then, she had commented that the wine was nice, the salad she ordered was tepid but appetizing, the bread was as expected, and their main course (which he no longer had an appetite for) was “pleasing”.

As she took another bite of meat, her mouth open just enough to be all lip and no teeth, he mused on her lukewarm attitude toward _everything_ and tried to imagine what she would be like as a wife. For their bonding and wedding, would she look at the flower arrangements and décor (that she would most likely have a hand in picking out) and simply nod in acceptance? As if it was just another day and someone else’s wedding?

What about their children? Would she look at them with such indifference, handing out bland platitudes in place of honest affection? He didn’t know if he could cope with that. He is all too familiar with that style of parenting and fervently does not want that for his children. No, he wants his babies to know into their very bones that they are loved by _both_ parents.

When they have sex, would she endure it, tight lipped and silent or would she provide commentary, “That was nice. If you touch just here . . . no here. Yes, much more pleasant. That orgasm was quite satisfactory. I don’t need nor want another”? He shudders and drinks deeply from his wine.

What the fuck kind of train wreck had his parents gotten him into with this engagement? And why was he continuing to try to manage it?

She is cutting her vegetables into tiny pieces when she says, “Your mother mentioned that you spend Tuesdays with Miss Hermione Granger.”

Gesturing to the waiting maître d’ for a refill, Draco pretends at sectioning his fish and aims for nonchalance. “Yes. We take lunch together. I’m funding her muggle-born transition project, and as an investor, I’m interested in hearing her progress.” Which is true. He doesn’t want to lie to Astoria. He’s seen what subterfuge can do to a marriage.

“Sometimes, we venture into muggle London to test her ideas for student field trips.”

“Would you say you’re close?”

He stills, looking at her not looking at him. Astoria is a polished pureblood princess, utterly elegant and always _correct_. “If you’re worried about my fidelity, don’t be. Granger is just a friend – a new one at that.” A friend that he is entirely too attracted to.

She takes up a bit of asparagus, chews carefully and primly dabs a drop of excess butter sauce from her lips. “I should like to meet her, if you agree.”

In his mind, he imagines that meeting, can hear Astoria’s voice telling him, “She’s a fine lady – short, lacking in fashion certainly – but quite fine. I found her conversation to be estimable.”

Holding in a sigh, he nods readily. “Of course.”

“Shall I invite her to tea or –”

“Let me speak to her. Find out when her schedule will allow a bit of socializing.” 

Astoria smiles and – somehow – it still gives him the impression of a frown. “Splendid.”

***

August 12, 2000

The semicircular booth is plush with an unexpected but welcome velvet upholstered seat in deep plum. Helen and her sisters-in law, Meggie and Oslo (so nicknamed due to her longtime tenure as a distinguished professor of Global History at the University of Oslo, Norway) are laughing at some complaint Meggie has about her husband, Richard’s older brother, John. She can’t quite remember the specifics of the complaint or why it was so flipping funny. Good drinks and company will do that.

Oslo wipes her tearing eyes and brandishes her nearly empty fourth beer, “Your turn Hels Bells. Share with us your lurid complaint against my other brother.” Oslo, of course, is exempt from the complaint line as she is dedicated to remaining single for life though not alone. She had conceived a baby girl – Iris - with a known sperm donor four years ago. 

“Goodness,” Helen says hoarsely, “I have no complaints though it would be lovely if he would go a day without soiling three or more sets of clothes.”

Cackling, Meggie slaps Helen’s leg, “Bleeding -- Is he still rolling about the dirt like an elephant in a mud bath? I remember in secondary, my neighbor thought he was a vagrant and offered him a plate of food whilst he was merely collecting some baubles for his mum!”

Oslo nods sagely as if this is all par for the course. “Richie has been involved in a deep love affair with dirt since he was in nappies and would crawl about the garden, digging alongside the family dogs.”

All three laugh and drink their respective liquors. Smacking her lips of fizzing strawberry and vodka, Helen adds, “It’s gotten _worse_. Now he has an accomplice!”

Meggie presses the fingers of one hand to her heart. “Dear Lord. Is there no one to save you from these mucky heathens? No industrial cleaner with enough . . . enough – “

“Foaming bubbles,” Oslo suggests helpfully.

“YES! _Foaming bubbles_ , enough to -- Oh my goodness, my ladies, let’s go to a FOAM PARTY!”

Helen chokes and sprays her drink all over the table. Thankfully, their food has not yet arrived. “We can’t go to a _foam party_ , Meggie.”

Oslo slams her fist onto the table. “Of course, we can! We’re bloody adults and it’s our Mum’s Night Out. We can do whatever the hell we want.”

Meggie falls over into Oslo’s lap, giggling and snorting as if she’s well and truly sloshed.

Oslo looks at Meggie in her lap. “Perhaps we’re a bit too far gone for a foam party.”

Just then, a server appears with their food – a platter laden down with a mountain of nachos (with chicken and tomatoes and peppers and so much cheese) and another round of drinks. At the very near prospect of food, Meggie rises back to sitting, eyes wide behind skewed glasses. “Oh my God! I’m so hungry!”

They don’t bother with individual plates, more than happy to pick out of the platter and eat with an abundance of casualness. 

Meggie contemplates a limp nacho, topped with melted cheese and a bit of tomato. “I think I should very much like some beignets after this. What say you, my ladies?”

Oslo clinks her beer bottle against Meggie’s tall glass full of Bloody Mary. “Here, here!”

Helen drinks to that, adding that they could also go out for ice cream after that.

Raising her arms, Meggie bellows as if her favorite football team just won the fucking world cup while Helen and Oslo laugh until their stomachs hurt.

Calming a bit, Oslo takes a large bite of nachos then swigs her beer. “So, tell us more Hels.”

Completely sloshed herself, Helen tilts her head questioningly, not knowing what Oslo is bloody asking for.

Meggie – the undisputed lightweight and holder of the “FUBAR” award of the night – points her finger into Helen’s face and very widely and loudly enunciates, “RI-CHIE-SSSS AC-COM-PLICCCCCCE.”

Oslo knocks down her empty bottle and has a cheesy nacho stuck to her blouse. “I need to visit you and Richie and Hermione. Iris is always asking when she can see Nee-Nee, and I always have to tell her we’ll see her when we visit England.”

Helen smiles, attempting three times to right Oslo’s beer and failing all three times. “Oh Hermione would love that . . . she’s usually home during the week except Tuesdays. Tuesdays are Draco days for her.”

Meggie elbows Oslo in the side. “Don’t distract her! I want to know about the ac-com-lish. Acornish? Ac-com-plicccceee.”

Blithely, Helen repeats. “Draco.”

Eating the nacho from her blouse, Oslo flails her arms, slapping Meggie about the shoulders in retaliation. “Who cares about the accomplice?”

Meggie wails, “What the shite is a Draco?”

Oslo pauses in her assault, blinking blearily at Helen. “Yes, who’s Draco and what is this person doing with my favorite niece on Tuesdays?”

Glancing at Meggie who is half-dozing and half-pouting. “What about Sarah?”

“ _One_ of my favorite nieces.” Oslo gestures to the server for one more round. “It’s a very strange name, _Draco_. Is he British?”

Helen rolls her eyes. “He’s more British than you are at this point Oslo. Apparently, he has a seat in the House of Lords.”

Meggie grabs a handful of nachos and tries to stuff them all messily in her mouth, getting the majority down her blouse instead, while Oslo attempts to control the mess . . . with a decided lack of coordination. “Bleeding Christ, Hels. How did our Nee-Nee meet such an animal and is he rich as well as titled? Shall we prepare for a royal wedding in the family? Is he old as rot? Handsome at least? I somehow always pictured Hermione marrying that Harry chap she ran around with at that mysterious boarding school you and Richie were so insistent she needed to go to.”

Helen laughs and promises to show her some pictures when they meet up next. “Harry has always been like a brother to her, and he’s engaged to another friend of Hermione’s, lovely girl . . . exceptional really. As for Draco, he’s Hermione’s age. They actually met at that boarding school and he’s currently helping her with a business venture she’s undertaking.”

With the booth as clean as it’s going to get, Oslo accepts her new beer from the server and orders some beignets. “Can’t help but notice you forgot to mention if he’s rich or handsome.”

Swirling the dregs of her drink, Helen grins. “Oh, he’s both.” Then she leans forward and grabs both of her companions by the back of the head. “But neither of you are allowed near him, you hear me.”

Oslo pushes away, laughing. “I am absolutely meeting this bloke, now.”

Unsteadily, Meggie nods. “Absolutely. Totally. If he is to marry my Nee-Nee, he has to earn Auntie Meggie’s and Auntie Oslo’s approval first.” Then, “Remember what _you_ did to Landon when he was dating my Sarah?”

Helen gives them both a strange look. “He’s Richie’s accomplice and Hermione’s friend. There will be no dating or marrying of Nee-Nee to any dragon.” She drinks deeply from her fresh glass. “Madness, that.”

Oslo throws a limp nacho at her. “I’m still going to meet him. I’ll bring Iris. That should distract Hermione long enough for me to give the kid the shovel talk.”

Both Meggie and Helen snort. Helen squeals when the cocktail she was drinking goes up her nose, and Meggie can’t stop laughing while Oslo hands her a million tissues from seemingly nowhere.

While Helen is blowing her nose of liquor, Meggie spies an advert on the lounge telly. “Ooooohhhh, my ladies, the Thunder from Down Under are having a show tonight. Fancy to see some scantily clad menfolk?”

Recovered, Helen raises her hand with a hiccupped, “I’m in.”

Oslo follows closely with a, “Fucking right, I fancy a bit of man flesh.”

Decision made, they have their beignets boxed and finish up their drinks (ordering a round of water to go). 

They are about to get up from their table when Meggie asks Helen, “Sarah’s never liked these sorts of things, but d’ you think Hermione would want to come?”

Oslo chuckles and waggles her eye brows, “Why would she want to see all of that? Doesn’t she already have a _dragon_?”

Helen smacks her in the back of the head. “She does not. They are _just friends_.”

Meggie sighs dramatically, weaving her arm through Helen’s as they stumble onto the sidewalk. “I remember a time when you insisted you and Richie were _just friends_.”

“I swear by all that’s ho- Hermione and Draco don’t have that kind of relationship. Now drop it.”

Oslo holds up her hands in supplication. “Yes, yes, darling. They’re just friends. I’ll remind you of this conversation when Hermione comes home with a ring on her finger.”

Helen sputters. “You know nothing about the boy or Hermione’s relationship with him! You didn’t even know he existed until about a half hour ago!”

Meggie and Oslo share a look before Oslo nods. “Then we’ll be sure to meet him during the week. Would next Saturday work?” Meggie follows up with a singsong, “I heard from Charity Cromwell that a really fit blond man prowls about your garage on Saturdays. That wouldn’t be Draco, would it?”

Helen stuffs a beignet in her mouth. “Oh fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER: Draco and Richie take a field trip of their own; Hermione finds out about Draco's engagement in the worst way possible.


	7. The Apples in Stereo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Richard have an outing. Hermione and Draco have lunch. It doesn't end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my ladies! (and gents. . . if there are gents, I want to know, please comment and let me know there are guys reading this!) My son's birthday party was a SUCCESS! Though I had to move the venue to my house due to extremely bad weather. Despite the weather, 20 of his friends (and their parents) descended upon my sanctuary and it was like a herd of wildebeasts stampeding from one end of the house to another for two hours but more than one kid told me it was the best party they've ever gone to. We had pokemon music and pokemon card packets hidden through the house and the food WENT. No one got pissed off because I have a house rule of no shoes in the house. AND I made a new friend - which any middle ager will tell you is fucking HARD, especially if you are an unrepentant geek who loves anime, comics, books, and star wars like me. 
> 
> ANYWAY, I know you didn't want to know all of that but I'm SO FREAKIN' RELIEVED. I don't have to worry about this shit for another year *LOL* 
> 
> ALSO! Thank you to karma_cookie for the suggestion of Draco and Richie visiting a record store ^_^
> 
> ONWARD.

August 15, 2000

It is Tuesday again, but instead of meeting Hermione directly, Draco is currently accompanying Richard to the “record” shop. Not that Draco has any idea what a record is or why there are shops dedicated to it though he’s surmised from Richard’s conversation that its something to do with music.

Muggle music. Played on something called a “turntable”.

Through the radio in the garage, Draco has found a liking for the varied sounds, instruments, and styles of muggle music. In particular, he’s become rather attached to songs by a band called the Beatles (whom, he’s been informed, have not been together since before he was born and that a member of the band named John Lennon was assassinated whilst Draco was still in nappies). Other bands he favors include: Def Leppard, U2, Fine Young Cannibals, and Metallica. 

Though, Draco has to admit, he probably hasn’t even begun to explore the expansive ocean of muggle music available. Or so Richard has told him many times with the explanation, “the radio is set only for the oldies station and even then the limited selection they air is from two decades.”

Honestly, he’s rather excited to be going – to have been invited. It feels rather reminiscent of how he felt in childhood when his father would bring him along on errands or allow him to play in the study, rare treats of quality time that – looking back – never really made up for the more frequent loneliness.

“Here we are, my boy. Feel free to pick something out – my treat.” They walk into the store and Draco is besieged by eclectic color and tables lining the small interior, each with a multitude of cardboard boxes, each filled with thin sleeves he can only guess the records are enveloped in. Each box has a white stripe on the front with something written in black. Signs emblazoned with genre types are interspersed among the boxes. 

It’s quiet – only two other people are patronizing the shop besides them, but Richard loudly greets the old man behind the till, engulfing the man in a back-slapping bear hug. “Draco,” Richard claps the back of his shoulder, “this is Uncle Saul. He’s a bit of a legend in this neighborhood, just never mind the curmudgeonly attitude. It’s all an act.”

Uncle Saul huffs, “Legends are _dead_ , boy. I’ve aged like a fine wine – transformative, a true limited edition, and always at the top of the game.” He aims rheumy eyes at Draco. “And still very much alive, no matter what this nincompoop might say.”

Liking the man, Draco smiles and holds out a hand to shake. “Draco Malfoy, also known to be rather curmudgeonly, even in the best of times.”

Scruffing the back of Draco’s neck, Uncle Saul spreads his arms, “Welcome to my castle Draco Malfoy. If you need any help finding anything, just yell ‘Uncle’ and I’ll come a-hobbling. If you find something but need a listen, call me for that too. I have a turntable set up for sampling purposes.”

Richard is grinning like a child, “Don’t forget about the karaoke machine.”

“Young man like him isn’t interested in that kind of frivolous fluff.” He squints, giving Draco a blatant once over. “’Sides, he’s obviously tone deaf. I can tell just by looking at him.”

Draco covers his grin with one hand. This is why he quite enjoys his time among muggles. The anonymity afforded him exchanges like this – genuine and unguarded. And while he isn’t familiar with the term “carry-oaky,” Uncle Saul’s intuition isn’t incorrect.

Laughing, Richard echoes Draco’s thoughts. “You aren’t wrong. Thankfully, this one keeps the caterwauling to a minimum in the garage.”

Uncle Saul harumphs mightily, gesturing with a flitting hand. “Well, go on. Go on and have a look see.” As Draco moves to browse, the old man catches his jumper sleeve. “And you, you listen to Richie. He might look like a buffoon, but he possesses a right good ear.” And then, as if an afterthought, “And you tell that girl of his to get her bum in gear and come visit an old man. I miss hearing her sing.”

Had Draco been eleven again, he would most likely have used this little tidbit as ammunition; but older, more mature Draco is simply intrigued. “Hermione sings?”

Uncle Saul raps Draco on the chest. “That girl has a set of pipes on ‘er, she does. Lovely, just lovely. Made me weep once or twice, singing Sinatra. Asked her to sing a little Etta James for me and the misses for our 50th anniversary. Such a shame she’s letting that voice go to waste behind all those books.”

Draco smiles, making a mental note to trick Hermione into singing for him sometime. “I rather like that she’s so curious and principled.”

The weathered face transforms into a grin. “Good lad. Treat her well, Mr. Malfoy.”

He merely nods. _I intend to. She’s the only friend I have._ Another reason he is determined to keep his distance, to ignore the growing attraction he feels for her.

Feeling unusually transparent in the face of Uncle Saul’s obvious affection for the muggle-born witch that binds them, Draco wanders to one of the tables, under the “country” sign. He files randomly through a box marked “A-N”. There’s one – the angled head of a man with a craggy face and open mouth. It says “Johnny Cash At Folsom Prison” in some strange lettering that is at once clear, block and incomplete. The edges of the casing are worn and stained from obvious frequent use. He takes it up as he’s seen the other patrons do and turns it about. There is a list of what he surmises must be songs titles. He’s not sure how this “country” style of music stacks up against the “oldies rock” that Richard favors, but he’s intrigued, thrusting the record under his arm to sample.

He sections off a handful of records to come to a rosy square with a pretty dark-haired woman looking shy and delighted, her name written in tall letters _Patsy Cline_. He shrugs and takes that one too. Something tells him he’ll find something special, a certain spark.

After several more minutes, filing through the country section, he takes one more record to sample due to a picture of the Pleiades on the cover and the title, “Stardust” by Willie Nelson. He then moves on to the “Rock and Roll” section, wondering how in Merlin’s name anyone could possibly review every single offering, because in addition to the tables, there are boxes _beneath_ the tables and the walls are also stacked high with boxes of records. 

Feeling a little overwhelmed, he thinks about music in the wizarding world, and has to admit – if only to himself – the civilization he had once held so far above muggledom is stagnant and near unchanging. Recent events have proven useful in moving and shaking things (though he now wishes it had not taken violence to instigate it); but the wizarding world is still one that treasures tradition to the exclusion of invention. The muggle world, by contrast, is in constant flux from what he can see. 

Apparently, even in something as universal as the musical arts, wizards are lagging behind. 

“How are you doing, Draco?” Richard sidles up and begins looking through a box nearby. 

Draco holds up the three albums he’s thinking of sampling. 

Richard nods. “Nice choices. You might also want to try Dolly Parton’s ‘The Coat of Many Colors’.”

They go back to filing through their respective boxes, Draco pausing at times for the sheer insanity depicted on the covers – naked women with their hair on fire, psychedelic paintings that remind him of taking a bad potion, and depictions of demons and magical creatures – vampires and even a veela. 

“I wanted to talk to you. About that week you and Hermione weren’t talking.”

A pit opens up in the vicinity of Draco’s midsection. He clears his throat though his voice is still hoarse when it comes out. “I’ve apologized to Hermione about –“

“Calm down, Draco. You’re not in trouble. I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re doing okay.” 

Draco turns away to gather himself, unable to process the older man’s concern. He had hurt this man’s daughter again and here he was offering Draco undeserved succor. “I’m . . . fine, really. Thank you Mr. Granger.” He runs a hand through his hair before facing Richard again. “I . . . I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Ufuoma actually . . . next week, Monday.”

Richard smiles gently as he scans the record titles and artists. “That’s wonderful. She’s been such a help to our family. I hope the same for you.”

“Than—“

“That being said,” Richard interrupts, turning to him with an uncharacteristic hard look. “If you hurt my little girl again, I will hurt your face, wizard or no.” He cracks his knuckles. “Just remember Hermione had to learn a proper right hook from someone.”

Draco knows he could stupefy this man before he could take a step, but he respects Richard and – more – wants Richard’s respect. “Yes, sir.”

Richard’s smile returns as he claps Draco on the back in comradeship. “I’m happy you agree.” Then, “Would you like me to make some suggestions? I know the selection probably seems overwhelming since you’re not very familiar with all the different music styles, genres, and artists.”

By the time they walk out of the shop, Draco has a stack of records of varying musical styles from several different decades. He had picked out albums by John Lennon, U2, and Oasis for himself along with the country albums he had sampled. Richard had recommended several albums which Draco ultimately purchased after listening for a few minutes. In particular, he’s interested in hearing more of the Eurythmics, B.B. King, R.E.M., Van Halen, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Nirvana, Weezer, OutKast, Wu Tang Klan and Marvin Gaye (to name a few). 

And if Richard or Uncle Saul noticed how he snuck records from Etta James and (after a very discreet talk with another patron) Frank Sinatra, neither of them said anything. 

The selection process had taken such a long time and he had bought so many he had thanked Uncle Saul profusely for his patience and insisted on paying despite Richard’s own insistence that it was his treat and that he was going to enjoy them too. 

As they leave, Draco mentions that – if he likes the albums enough – he’ll buy a turntable of his own then asks about Richard’s own selection of merely five albums. 

“Elvis for Helen. You’re going to have a listen to this one, my boy, whether you want to or not. Elvis wasn’t called ‘The King’ for no reason. And I’ve got Don Henley, a little AC/DC for those hard days, and some James Brown – another one you should have a listen to right there.” He pauses, a wistful smile coming to his lips. “There’s Madonna – ‘The Immaculate Collection’ for Hermione. Big Madonna fan, my girl. She used to watch music videos on the telly when she was little. Whenever Madonna would queue up, she would actually put down whatever she was reading and dance around the house singing along at the top of her lungs.” He chuckles to himself, his countenance far away in remembrance. “Hermione isn’t a very strong dancer, but – even when she was small – she had a big voice.”

She always did – singing or no, Draco thinks. “Music videos?”

“Oh, yes. The Beatles actually made some of the first ones during the 60s. They became more prevalent in the 80s when an American channel called MTV debuted on the telly. It was dedicated – at the time - to music and artists would film these artsy videos to go along with their songs. Sometimes they were quite cinematic or poignant or bizarre.” Richard’s expression turns thoughtful as Draco watches him, not really understanding but trusting he’ll experience this new muggleism soon enough. 

“There’s quite a few famous ones like Aha’s ‘Take on me’, Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video, Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ – which, I bloody should have added to your selection – ah, well, perhaps Hermione will show you on the computer later. Now what was I saying? Oh yes, famous music videos . . . if you find you’re interested, you should also look up Peter Gabriel’s ‘Sledgehammer’, it’s completely bizarre but strangely satisfying . . . and if you want to see Hermione go completely bonkers, Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ never fails to bring back the little girl in her.” Draco catches the man glancing at him with an evil little grin that looks quite out of place as Draco thought of the man as a saint on earth. “Well, any older Madonna song really. And she had a mad crush on Billy Idol growing up.”

Billy Idol? Draco remembers Richard mentioning him while holding up a cover emblazoned with a picture of a pouting young man with spiked platinum hair, pale chiseled features, and wearing a black leather jacket. Richard had joked that the man on the album might be a muggle cousin of the Malfoys. 

And Hermine had had a “mad crush” on him? _Interesting._ Not that such a circumstance would change anything. Hermione would never return his affections, and even if she did, he was still a taken man – bound by a magical contract to be faithful if not his principles.

He looks up at the sky and commits – again – to burying this growing feeling inside that always comes up when he thinks of her and his engagement. 

“Are you really alright, Draco?” Richard’s tone is just this side of concerned. “You don’t have to be buttoned up every minute of every day. It’s perfectly normal to open your baggage and wear its contents now and again. Air it out. Let it breathe.”

A new insight comes to Draco then, his face reflecting the quirk of empathy. “You . . . you mentioned seeing Dr. Ufuoma too. Your family, you said. I knew Hermione saw her but . . . what happened to you and Helen?”

As they walk along, skirting other pedestrians, pausing at crosswalks and watching cars, Richard places his hands in his pockets. “Before she left to go hunt those . . . things Voldemort used to gain longevity, she took Helen’s and my memories of her.” He huffs a bitter laugh. “One second, we’re just Richard and Helen Granger on the sofa . . . the next we were waking up Wendell and Monica Wilkins, childless couple with plans to move to Australia. We started packing the house straight away – didn’t even question the extra bedroom – how it looked feminine and very lived in. 

“Hermione had left without the majority of her things, and we didn’t even think it was odd how some of the picture frames had gone missing. “

Draco watched his feet moving across the concrete below. He knew this. Helen had told him, but then he hadn’t known Hermione the way he does now. He remembers how he felt when he had first heard of Hermione’s gamble. He had very nearly laughed. Even in this, she had out-performed him. 

He had sold his soul to protect his family honor and – later – become a monster trying to keep his family together. Meanwhile, knowing she might die in pursuit of defeating Voldemort, Hermione had sacrificed everything but the clothes on her back to protect her parents, effectively making herself an orphan. 

_Bloody fucking . . . she probably thought she wasn’t going make it to the end._ His face warms and eyes water, now, thinking of how she must have been following Voldemort’s movements, his escalating violence against muggles and muggle-borns. The fucking Muggle-born Registration Commission. How scared she must have been. How desperate, probably thinking she just wanted to preserve her parents’ lives and happiness. And excluding herself from that life and happiness because . . . because . . . . 

He wants to cry for her, wants to find a time turner to go back and hold that girl as she makes that decision. He wants to reassure her that everything will fall into place, that she’ll survive and have her parents back eventually and she need not worry.

He suddenly wonders if had she told her friends before or after the deed was done. He wonders if she had felt supported or impossibly alone. He hopes it was the former. Richard continues, “Wendell and Monica went to Australia, but they weren’t happy there. Pretty much the second they stepped off the aeroplane, their lives began falling apart. They didn’t have memories of Hermione anymore but . . . a parent can’t forget a child, not completely. There are bonds there that are deeper than any memory.” He sighs. “Long story, short, Wendell became a flaming alcoholic and Monica nearly killed herself trying to save a baby that wasn’t there.”

Draco swallows that information down, not really sure what he’s supposed to say or feel beyond shock and a hint of incrimination. 

As if sensing his turmoil, Richard places a hand on his shoulder. “It’s strange, having memories of another life that directly affects the original. Makes a man count his blessings with a little more focus and attention to detail. Know what I mean, Draco, my boy?”

He nods, knowing exactly what Richard means and wondering if he’s been remiss in counting his own blessings. Has he been giving them the attention they deserve after such an unexpected and thorough second chance?

“Anyway,” Richard says, slinging his bag of records over his shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind me tagging along on your lunch with Hermione.”

“Not at all . . . we usually just talk business. Sometimes she’ll suggest an outing to test out how a lifelong wizard like myself with no previous experience with the muggle world will react. We’ve been bowling and golfing . . . and to the arcade. She’s really making strides with this venture of hers. You must be very proud of her.”

Richard’s smile is . . . strange. Draco has the impression he’s hiding something behind the pleasant expression. “Of course. Helen and I are always proud of her, but more than that, we’re happy she’s finally found a purpose. For a while after our return to Britain, we could see Hermione was lost and drifting without direction. She had dedicated her life since she was eleven to helping Harold and winning the war for you lot. With all of that resolved, well . . . To be honest with you Draco, I sometimes think she had accepted she would die fighting. When she didn’t die . . . she no longer knew what to do with herself.”

Draco’s never seen Richard look so haunted and isn’t sure how to comfort the man who’s been more of a father to him in the last few months than Lucius had been his entire life. He chooses to do nothing but listen, to witness, to . . . be there for him.

“My little girl is a strong one but . . . stubborn too. She doesn’t like asking for help – never has. Taught herself to read by listening to her mother and me. Taught herself to dress herself by age two. Taught herself to tie her shoes. I can’t tell you how many times I would come in from outside to find her sitting in our closet untying and retying every shoe she could find.” He laughs. “Brilliant, she is. Too smart for her own good sometimes.” He lightly elbows Draco in the side. “I’m sure you’ve found she can be a handful.” Draco smiles, feeling weirdly shy at the assumption because it’s true. “More, at times.”

“She’s also fragile. More so than she would like to admit to herself or anyone else.” Richard’s gaze is a piercing thing, dissecting Draco’s thoughts and pricking all the sensitive secret things he’s been hiding from himself. 

“I know.” _I know_. He can see that fragility in her every time she flinches at certain sounds, how she quails at sudden bright lights and braces herself in those infrequent moments he reaches for his wand before casting a simple charm or apparating. 

He’s pretty fragile too.

They reach the restaurant Hermione had indicated before they left the house for the record shop. It’s a quaint little place with scratched up floors, discoloration on parts of the walls and marked up chairs. It smells strongly of old grease.

Draco’s nose scrunches up in protest but immediately relaxes when he sees her. She stands, face glowing and happy with a smile that melts his kneecaps. Her hair is in a messy braid, tendrils curling alongside her cheeks and down the line of her neck. Her jumper is a comely shade of burnt orange that compliments the light tan of her skin. She hugs and kisses her father before reaching up on her toes to embrace him, her body warm and soft against his; and despite their prior embrace at the mini-golf course, it’s unexpected and unusual and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He has just tentatively settled one hand at her waist when she steps back, let’s go. _Too soon_. . . 

“Will you be joining us, dad?” Hermione’s eyes are still on Draco. It doesn’t escape either man’s notice. And though Draco knows Richard had planned to lunch with them, Richard shakes his head with an inexplicably sly smirk at Draco.

“No, no. I’ll leave you kids to it. But before I go, I wanted to warn you both that Meggie and Oslo will be visiting on Saturday.” The smirk turns to a pitying look. “They are quite keen to meet you, Draco, so I hope you’ll be coming by to help me out with my new project.”

Draco’s attention shifts from Hermione to her father. “Meggie and Oslo?”

It’s Hermione that answers, “My aunts. Aunt Meggie is dad’s brother’s wife and Aunt Oslo is dad’s sister.” To Richard, “Are they bringing Nana?” At that Hermione’s expression turns impossibly sunny. “I can’t wait to see her.”

“Well, then, my work here is done. Have fun kids.” Richard laughs at nothing, slapping Draco’s shoulder as he turns to leave.

***

As they sit, Hermione’s nerves take wing in her belly like so many butterflies and dragonflies and ladybugs – all beautiful because though she’s irrationally scared, it’s still wonderful – less anxiety and more anticipation. 

Her face is stretched into a smile she can’t contain as she takes in his handsome features. He looks just as happy to see her, she thinks, and the thought makes her heart soar. 

She leans forward slightly, hands in her lap to keep from reaching for him. “I apologize, about my aunts. They probably heard some rumors about you or something from Elizabeth or her mother. You don’t have to meet them if you don’t want to.”

His eyes are soft as he tells her it’s fine and he’s actually looking forward to it. “Is your aunt’s name really Oslo?”

Hermione giggles, surprising even herself. _Dial it down, Hermione. It’s not like you’re a besotted firstie_. “No, no. She’s always hated her name but the nickname Oslo is a recent thing– just the last few years really, since she started working at the University of Oslo. Her real name is Cressida.”

He nods as she goes on, rambling in a way she doesn’t know he finds endlessly adorable. “I know you said you had never tried a cheeseburger before and this place has the best in the UK. I’ve already ordered for us but I asked that the toppings be placed on the side so that you can choose what you want to actually eat.” She brandishes a napkin-wrapped set of utensils. “I also asked for a knife and fork because I know how finicky you are about table etiquette, and I also collected quite a few extra napkins so that you don’t have to worry about your clothes.”

She passes everything to him, trying to ignore the way his gaze makes her cheeks heat and stomach swoop. Her mention of his clothes has her noting the black t-shirt stretched across his chest. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth for a moment before she notices his bare forearm, still devoid of the mark.

Her curiosity gets the better of her. “I apologize if this is a bit obtuse, but . . . are you using a glamour?” She gestures toward his arm. “Many muggles are tattooed, if you’re worried about questions. The most you could expect is someone asking who the artist was.”

He had been arranging the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar and napkin dispenser, setting his place with eyes on his hands, but at this inquiry, he pins her with a look that she feels like pins and needles in her toes. “I was actually more concerned about you. It’s ugly. What it means is even uglier.”

She searches for words, the right response, tripping on syllables that seem large and cumbersome. “D – Do you st-still, I mean . . . “ Her heart hurts, thinking about that time when he stood, pale and sad in her kitchen and told her that he was disgusted by his own reflection. “I want to see it, Draco. It’s meaningless now. I know you don’t . . . believe that way anymore.”

He hides his hands, but she knows . . . somehow that he’s clutching at his thighs, digging his nails into denim until it hurts. “But I did believe it at one time.”

“We all make mistakes, Draco. And you’ve made efforts to make amends. At some point, you need to forgive yourself the way most of us have.”

His teeth bite into his lower lip in a way that makes her wonder what he’s thinking. She doesn’t have to wonder long. “Someone once told me: _A mistake is forgetting to cast a cooling charm before harvesting fire seeds. Being a Death Eater is a LIFE PLAN.”_

Shame and guilt war within her when she hears her own words – spoken in just anger – thrown back at her. She glances to the side as a server brings their drinks in tall red cups – a cola for her and a water for him. When she brings herself to look upon him again, his expression is closed. “Life plans can change just as other decisions can be unmade. You may have been one of them at the outset; but . . . we both know it’s not the mark that makes a Death Eater.” Her thoughts were with her former potions professor, and how they had all misjudged him so thoroughly.

She watches as he closes his eyes to open them, blood shot and tired. “How did your hearing go? In your letters, I’ve noticed you avoided even a mention.”

Honestly, she hasn’t wanted to tell him or anyone really. Even when her parents have asked, she’s skirted around the subject and Harry has been sworn to secrecy as she plans out her next steps. Hagrid is the only one who knows the full version of events, and while he tends to have a loose tongue when confronted and nervous, she trusts him to keep this business to himself.

She also doesn’t want to lie. Draco is a professional liar himself, and he’s like a bloodhound when presented with untruths. “It . . . wasn’t quite what I expected. There was some issue with the press, and I was nearly late. The minority governors were not in attendance and the ones that were seemed more interested in keeping the current outdated course material than actually discussing the materials prepared.” She sighs, remembering the way the Speaker had sneered down at her from the dais. “I know it will be an uphill battle. This is just the first skirmish.”

His eyes narrow, mouth flattening into a noncommittal line. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She waves away his concern. “Nothing of consequence. I’m just waiting for notice of the voting date, now. If they decide against the changes then I’ll just wait until next year . . . I’ll even take your advice and make appointments to talk with each of the governors individually . . . or come up with an alternative plan. Maybe I can offer private tutoring? Something equally independent of the Board.” 

Her thoughts – and rambling – are halted by the arrival of their food. She smiles at the server – a young girl of about sixteen with braces and long braids. The girl looks at them both in turn and asks if they need anything else – ketchup? More napkins?

Draco opens his mouth, but Hermione beats him, telling the girl to bring the ketchup and some mayonnaise please.

He glares in her general direction. “Are you going to tell me what really happened?”

She smirks at him to cover her nervousness. “I already did. I knew going in that it was a gamble. But it isn’t over yet. Have a little faith.”

“Fine, but if you need any help –“

“You’re the first person I’ll ask.”

She can tell he doubts that, but he doesn’t say anything, choosing to carefully unwrap his utensils and settle a few opened napkins in his lap. He uses the fork to meticulously add lettuce and onion and tomato to his burger, making a face at the way the cheese clings to the bun as he lifts it with a knife. 

“May I ask another obtuse question?” Hermione judiciously bangs the ketchup bottle upside down after she insures the cap is on nice and tight. 

He’s taken up his knife and fork, and she’s thoroughly charmed by something so simple as the way he handles his utensils with the fork in the left hand and the knife in the right, how he lines up his index finger along the top of the knife base and how he holds himself as he cuts, posture tall and confident and shoulders relaxed, hands strong and steady. She grins as he focuses on his burger, planning the method of attack though he glances at her and urges her to ask whatever is on her mind.

As if to punctuate the differences between them that has her so amused, she brings her own burger to her mouth with her hands and takes a big bite, a trail of grease sliding down to her chin. She laughs as she wipes her mouth, the grease, feeling somehow free and self-conscious at the same time as Draco watches her with a strange expression that has her palms sweating and heart palpitating in her chest.

She clears her throat, hoping he doesn’t see the thrill on her face. “Your table manners are . . . perfect. I was just wondering why – out of all the muggle things you’ve seen and experienced and seem to accept, table etiquette is the thing that agitates you the most.”

“Not agitated,” he says as he maneuvers a choice bite-sized cut of food. “This isn’t about wizard vs. muggle or pureblood vs. muggle-born. The table is the center of social interaction. It is where families share their lives with each other; where friends talk of their plans and daily happenings; where life matches are negotiated; and where business partnerships are made.” He takes his first bite of cheese burger and she preens when his eyes light up. “The dinner table is fundamental to a functioning family in microcosm and civilized society in general. It’s sacrosanct.”

“Mmm. I suppose many of us have forgotten the art of dinner table etiquette and conversation.” She samples her chips without ketchup first then goes back for a second taste with the condiment, licks her lips.

Draco is watching her warily in that . . . unreadable but stimulating way. “While I find muggles to be pleasant in general, I must say, they need to slow down and enjoy their meals more . . . and not on laps or benches. A table is paramount. It holds your food and drink for you, freeing the mind and mouth for intelligent discourse.”

She doesn’t say it though she does agree with his assessment. She hasn’t brought up the subject of table manners randomly. Gathering her courage, she inhales and exhales, wipes her hands on a napkin and puts on a winning smile to spite the warmth growing in her cheeks. “Actually, along that vein, would you . . . would you like to have dinner with me . . . Friday night? There’s this lovely new little Mediterranean place not far from your new flat and –“ 

The cringe on his face is what silences her. Before he says anything, she feels the sting of rejection but doesn’t let her smile falter. He wipes his mouth. “I’m afraid Friday isn’t a good night as I usually have plans with Astoria; but if you’d like to meet another day in the week . . . ?”

She blinks, feeling suddenly rather large and overly exposed. “Astoria?”

He’s looking at her as if she’s vague, as if he expected better. “My fiancée, Astoria Greengrass. I usually reserve Friday or Saturday nights to spend time with her. It’s been a bit difficult getting to know each other with so little available free time.”

_Fiancee_? Her heart is hammering in her chest yet all she feels is cold, like she’s caught in an ice storm, sharp pieces of ice billeting her skin with force and frostfire. “I’m sorry . . . if I seem a bit shocked. It’s just you’ve never mentioned being engaged.” 

He looks genuinely apologetic and confused. “I thought you knew. Your parents know . . . . I imagine Potter and Weasley and your other friends do as well.”

She swallows that down. It feels like shards of glass, but she still musters the strength to form a pale smile, to somehow speak – her voice thready and fading, “Well . . . May I extend my congratulations?” Her chest hurts – in a different way than earlier – and she doesn’t understand why she feels so devastated. This is so much worse than the heartache she felt at seeing Ron kissing Lavendar in sixth year, and she had fancied herself in love with Ron. This . . . with Draco, _It isn’t like they have been anything special to each other._ “I’m so happy for you.”

Aware that she doesn’t sound very happy at all, she eats and swallows her feelings; because, really, what has she lost here? Nothing. They are still friends, and she’ll see him on Tuesdays and at her house on Saturdays. The only thing that has changed is that she now knows she has no chance at all of something more with him. 

He carefully puts down his cutlery and sifts his fingers through his hair while looking out the windows. “Thank you. It was arranged when I was still a toddler, no older than Edward.” He gazes at her through his lashes. “Of course, if you need more time with me to discuss the muggle transition plans, I can make more time during the week.”

As if the shock of his engagement wasn’t enough, he thinks she was asking him to dinner to discuss work?! Hermione bows her head, her appetite gone and humiliation prickling her insides. Of course. Of course, he would think such a thing. It was all she was good for in the eyes of the opposite sex thinking of Harry and Ron and the many nights she spent helping them revise. Even Viktor – long before he asked her to the Yule Ball – had initially sought her out for help with his homework. She had forgotten that. Her memories of Viktor always shrouded in the heady triumph that an older good-looking bloke – and a world famous quidditch player no less – had asked her to the ball.

It is only logical, she supposes. She’d been given this gift, this brain, this ability to understand complex concepts and untangle puzzles, to remember facts and figures and – later – apply them to form correct conclusions (that sometimes saved lives). She is clever, bright, smart; and she had basked in the attention doing more than well in academics had afforded her. 

It is greedy wanting to also be talented in social circles; to need acknowledgement as a woman; to desire being wanted and pursued for more than her brain. 

Greedy . . . . She is greedy. Hadn’t she survived a war she thought she would die in? Hadn’t she succeeded in getting her parents back? Hadn’t she managed to heal the rift in their relationship? Hadn’t she gotten a chance to forgive and get to know Draco? Wasn’t all that enough? _It was enough_ , she tells herself sternly. _This friendship is enough._

Even though the friendship is apparently still so flimsy he hadn’t thought to mention he is getting married. Or maybe he hadn’t told her because she isn’t to be invited? Maybe his fiancée doesn’t want him dallying with female friends after the nuptuals and he didn’t know how to tell her their time together is limited? Or . . . maybe he just didn’t care if she knew or not.

She somehow manages to keep the smile on her face throughout lunch, even when he tells her Astoria would like to meet her, indicating that while she had been kept in the dark, his intended had been well-informed. 

She manages to say good-bye to him without her voice breaking even though her throat feels tight and aching. 

She manages to walk home without incident or having a break down. 

She manages to make it to her room without having to talk to anyone or explain anything or defend the tears already streaming down her face as she quietly closes the door and casts a muffliato. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That happened.
> 
> And now that I've completely ruined your weekend and prepared you for Monday, I just want to assure you: It's going to be okay.
> 
> The music choices in this chapter are independent of my own tastes and are - instead - thoroughly character driven.
> 
> I've been rewriting the next chapter all week because 1. the tone was just way too depressing and 2. I finally decided how things are gonna flow, so it's a massive rewrite. I'm . . . getting there and optimistic it'll be done for next Sunday.
> 
> Also, I am currently brainstorming for my next Dramione fic (which will probably be written after I finish one of my Avengers fics). I would love someone to bounce ideas off of. If anyone's interested, let me know in comments.


	8. Of Cake and Scotch Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two world collide; a surprising discovery is made; and Draco and Hermione have a little alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD GOD. Yes, you are not seeing things. I have updated. If you are curious as to what took so freaking long, please read the author's notes at the end.
> 
> Trigger warnings: mentions of depression and ptsd, mentions of the possibility of rape, mentions of past torture.
> 
> The pool idea was mentioned by several people but Rabradley09 said it first! Thank you all!
> 
> Also, this chapter was written specifically for Draco to say ONE LINE. If you can guess the one line, you get to request a oneshot 'missing scene' within the Tea/Luncheon universe.

he quiet Saturday visit from Hermione’s aunts becomes – somehow – an impromptu early birthday luncheon for Iris (who is going back to Norway in three days) and Hermione, whom share the same birthdate though not the same age.

As such, while Aunt Oslo and Aunt Meggie are running late (something about Iris’ birthday gift), the rest of the Granger clan is here – Hermione’s Uncle John, older cousins Sarah and Jack “Baker” with their respective spouses Landon and Suri, Nana Betty and Grandpa Douglass. Also in attendance are Harry, Ron, Ginny, Aria, Neville, Luna, Pavarti and Padma, Seamus, Dean, Draco and their significant others if applicable (though Astoria is notably absent). Andromeda and Teddy were able to make it as well as Bill, Fleur and the teeny-tiny Victoire. 

Everyone had been instructed to bring gifts for Iris if the wished but to forgo anything for Hermione at Hermione’s explicit request. What many of them didn’t know is that Hermione hasn’t celebrated her birthday since 1998. She simply doesn’t feel very festive at this time of year anymore.

That being said, Hermione is appreciative of all company but is most relieved to have the children there to help Iris feel as if she isn’t drowning in adults – even if one of those children is only three months old and unable to do much more than be held, lie down, or slither about slowly on her tummy. 

As the house fills up with bodies and talking and children sounds, Hermione tries to keep an eye on Draco, particularly as the party-goers begin to make their way to the back yard; however, she loses track of him while spending most of her time introducing and reintroducing her magical brethren to her Nana. 

It’s probably for the best, she thinks, that she’s so distracted. She isn’t in a celebratory mood, having gotten word yesterday that the Governors had voted against her proposal. Considering how her hearing went, she isn’t at all surprised though there is still the hurt of failure and the sting of pride.

At least her manuscript is in the last stages of editing (Draco’s and Mrs. Malfoy’s notes had been illuminating, educational and – unexpectedly – inspiring) and though initial interest in her muggle-born/squib consultation initiative has waned somewhat, she had received several requests for further meetings with muggle parents, second year and entering muggle-borns. She would be quite busy in the next few weeks, regardless of disappointment with the Governors.

However, while her professional life is doing rather well, her personal life is imploding before her eyes. She has managed to – mostly – avoid Draco today, though not by design. No, after her disastrous attempt asking him out (and summarily finding out he is affianced), she had had her cry, pulled up her big girl pants and decided to proceed as normal. . . . Or as normal as she could proceed with the thoughts and feelings she has about him and his smile and his voice and his body and his _hands._

Actually, she has been trying to convince herself that if she just thinks of him as she does Harry, everything would fall into place. That idea lasted for a mere two minutes after Draco’s arrival – at her front doorstep – when her Nana had proclaimed that he reminded her of her Douglass, strapping and handsome and, “It was love at first sight, you know, and I daresay my knickers were soiled every time I saw him thereafter.” 

Hermione had stared at her dear old grand-mother with something akin to horror while Grandpa Douglass chuckled a thoroughly unwanted confirmation and winked at Draco who – thank the Powers That Be – reacted with a gracious sort of humor – blushing amid chuckles before introducing himself with aplomb. 

The ensuing conversation with her Nana and Grandpa had been nerve-wracking with Nana forgetting that Draco is just a friend about six times, Hermione fumbling to reiterate that she is single and Draco is engaged to someone else and – no – his fiancé isn’t here, then Draco teasing her grand-mother with a polished smooth elegance that was at once interesting, amusing, and breath-taking to watch. 

Grandpa Douglass had studied the exchange silently, occasionally shooting a loaded glance in Hermione’s direction that had her tongue twisting as she again assured her grand-mother that she is indeed Hermione, old enough to be out of school, date and have friends that are engaged and/or married and pregnant.

As the familial socializing became extended with more arrivals, Hermione managed to flit about, catching up with her cousins and helping her mother prepare the food, set the cake, and occupy Teddy and Iris. 

Preoccupied though she is, there are moments (like now) when her and Draco’s eyes meet – purely by chance, really - and her entire body becomes shockingly (embarrassingly) aware and hotly enflamed. The less thought of the state of her knickers the better.

Dazedly, she breaks the shared gaze, remembering he is already spoken for, and questioning herself for the hundredth time if all these _moments_ \- when she keenly feels (what she believes to be) his interest – are mere wishful imagination. 

The suggestion hurts her in ways Ron’s sixth year obliviousness never had. 

Unlike then, however, she doesn’t let the pain get the best of her. She understands that having feelings for someone doesn’t oblige that person to return those feelings . . . that her hurt is not Draco’s to bear.

Still, in her mind, while she knows this . . . _fascination_ she has for him is futile, her heart is not yet convinced. In the days since the revelation of Draco’s engagement, Hermione has grieved the what-ifs and laid down the could-have-beens in favor of being grateful for the chance to know him as he is rather than remember him only as he was. Or so she would like to think. And - why is she even dwelling on this again? “Your young man is charming, Hermione-dear. Perhaps we shall see him around more often, eh?” Nana’s eyes are glittering behind her spectacles, her smile wide and toothless. Hermione shakes her head as she sets down a tray of sausage rolls and a platter of scotch eggs. _Ah yes._ This again. 

“He’s not mine, Nana; but he visits dad’s garage every Saturday if you would like to call on him after today.” Hermione shoots a helpless look at her grand-father who merely shrugs and winks, equally helpless.

“Not -- Hermione Jean Granger. You told me you meet with him every Tuesday, yes?”

Having had this exact conversation seven times already, Hermione pats her grand-mother’s hand and patiently explains that they do meet every Tuesday for lunch.

“Well,” Nana scoffs, “in my day, that sort of thing was called ‘going steady’.” She glances over at her husband, chewing on a sausage roll. “Isn’t that so, Douglass?”

He wipes his mouth, swallows and grins at his grand-daughter. “Your grand-mother is right, Hermione.” He presses a kiss to Nana’s brow. “As always.”

Hermione rolls her eyes though her mouth remains curled into an affectionate smile. “He’s _engaged to someone else_ , Nana. We really are just friends.”

Nana’s delighted expression falls to a disappointed scowl. “ _What_?” She shakes her head slowly and holds up a finger, “Engaged? Then what in heaven’s name is he doing dating you on Tuesdays?” If she had pearls on, Hermione had no doubt she would be clutching them. “Why I never . . . . “ Her eyes find Draco across the yard, assisting Teddy in a thoroughly improper game of croquet. Her look turns shrewd. “Of course, he’s not married yet, dear.”

Grandpa Douglass adds (also for the fourth time), “Not that we are encouraging any sort of lewd behavior.”

Hermione purses her mouth against a laugh. They have been doing nothing _but_ encouraging lewd behavior – her Nana, in particular - shocking her with ribald suggestions to seduce Draco away from his fiancée because _you’re not getting any younger, dear._ Never mind she isn’t even twenty-one yet.

That being said, she is only 50% sure her grand-parents aren’t serious. Her Nana has been wrapped around Draco’s little finger nearly from the moment they were introduced, particularly after the third introduction. He had _genuflected_ before the seated elderly woman, taken up her hand to kiss the crown of her wedding ring as if she were a queen and he a courtly knight swearing fealty. 

Damn his pureblood charm.

“Hermione, your mother needs to see you in the kitchen. Says it’s urgent,” her dad says as he carries another tray of food from the house. His face is slightly pale but the usual genuine smile is there as he lays out the tray and consolidates what was already there, handing her two newly empty ones. 

He stares at her with some gravity, as if trying to communicate something silently. Hermione takes the trays, turns and tries to rush to the house without seeming to. She enters the garage and skirts the barebones frame of her dad’s newest project and the tarp covered contraption Draco has been working on with guidance from her dad and his auto club cronies. The door to the kitchen is closed and – once tested – locked, adorned with a hastily scribbled note commanding, “Knock Before Entering.”

Dutifully, Hermione knocks then announces herself and waits. Moments pass, the quiet filled up with the sound of distant cars rushing over asphalt and the garage radio pumping out “Dancing with Myself” by Billy Idol. Hermione bobs on her feet to the tune.

Just when she has shifted her grip on the tray to knock again, the lock disengages and her mother’s harried face peeks through a small crack. When she sees Hermione, the relief is palpable though her eyes remain a little wild as she ushers the daughter in before shutting and locking the door again.

“Mum, what’s –”

“Shush, dear. Just follow me.”

As they enter the kitchen, Hermione isn’t absolutely certain what has her mother so rattled until she realizes lavender and pink frosting unicorns shouldn’t be galloping through the air and a birthday cake should not be able to shift color like a New Year’s fireworks display.

And in the midst of this obvious case of accidental magic, Iris spins and laughs gaily as if everything is more than splendid and nothing is amiss. It’s her birthday party and the unicorns will fly if she wants them to.

“Oh . . .” Breathless, her mind runs through a gamut of possible expletives while her body goes numb and useless, “my – How did . . . ?” She doesn’t even know what to say or ask first even though a distant part of her that isn’t screaming, _My baby cousin is a witch!_ , knows that she is the subject matter expert in the room and should react accordingly.

By this time, Iris has twirled twice more and caught sight of Hermione, squealing a bright, “Look, Nee-Nee! Look! I told Auntie Helen that unicorns can fly! And they did! Look!” She’s jumping up and down, arms akimbo and waving, excited and expectant at Hermione’s feet.

Helen is a warm sentinel at her elbow as she forces herself to calm and smiles down at the little brunette, dark-eyed imp. “It’s wonderful, Iris.” She shares a quick look with her mother.

Suddenly decisive, she lowers to haunches and touches fingertips to Iris’s little face. “Can you make them return to the cake?” Iris nods enthusiastically, turning her head to look up at the cake – still shifting colors – sitting on the counter near an open carton of frosting. 

Hermione watches the intensity of Iris’ gaze, feels the surge of magic as the unicorns dancing around the kitchen disappear with an audible ‘pop’ and reappear on the cake which then settles into a soft sky blue.

One more test . . . Wandless, Hermione conjures a white cloth napkin into her hand. Iris’s eyes grow large as she “oooohhh”s with appropriate wonder. “Iris, darling,” Hermione bends even closer to the tot, lowering her voice to a whisper, “can you make this fly too?” 

Feeling her mother’s gaze, Hermione glances at Helen then back at Iris whose face is pinched in thought as she pets the pristine material. It takes a few minutes, but soon enough Hermione feels the magic tingling along her skin again as the napkin folds up then opens again, transmuted into a large butterfly. 

This isn’t accidental magic. This is magic with intent. One day, Iris will be a powerful witch indeed. 

But for right now, Hermione needs to figure out how to deal with this. 

There’s a part of her that’s delighted. Another witch in the family! But a much larger part – the part that once took so much joy in her ability to channel and wield magic with efficacy and skill, screams at her to take this child and hide her away – far from the wizarding world, somewhere safe and free from ostracism, silver masks, unforgiveable curses, and wounds that -literally- never heal.

She takes a long inhale to steady her breathing when, suddenly, all she can smell is blood.

“Hermione?” Her attention snaps to her mother who is watching her with concern. “Are you alright?”

_No._ With effort, she discreetly changes the butterfly back into a napkin then begins to count her breaths even as she asks Iris a few simple questions like, _That was amazing! How did you do that? What were you thinking when it happened? Can you make the cake turn orange? It’s my favorite. Have you done anything like this before?_

It takes four tries, but Iris does make the cake turn orange; and she tells Hermione, quite shyly, that she had turned her doll’s hair blue (Iris’s favorite) which had prompted her mother to reprimand her for playing with ‘kim-i-kuls’ whatever those are. 

Hermione succinctly explains what chemicals are and why Iris shouldn’t play with them before effusing how special she is to make frosting unicorns fly and change the cake color and how utterly _proud_ Nee-Nee is that she is so, so _special_ , but “we can’t tell your mum about this just yet, okay?” 

Iris blinks her innocent, hazel eyes at her and squirms. “But mummy says secrets are bad.”

At a loss, Hermione runs her fingers through Iris’s pigtails as Helen kneels down nearby. “Iris, ducky, this isn’t a secret but a very special surprise that we’ll tell your mummy when it’s just the four of us, later. Understand?”

Well, that takes care of two of the litany of questions running through Hermione’s head; the others being: _How should she tell Aunt Oslo? How can she tell Iris in a way that a four year old will understand? Does she have the right to tell Aunt Oslo and Iris, or is this something firmly under the jurisdiction of the Ministry or Hogwarts? Why is this happening?_

And – possibly most important, _How can she condemn Iris to a magical world she, herself, doesn’t fully trust?_ She tries not to think about how she asks herself the same every time she meets a newly entering first year.

Maybe Beauxbatons would be a better option than Hogwarts for a muggle-born? Hermione makes a mental note to ask Fleur.

Iris is nodding with her finger pressed to her lips before she nods and asks to go outside. Hermione swallows down her apprehension to mirror the little girl’s excitement before standing and grasping a little hand. “I’ll take her.” She tells her mother.

Helen nods, glancing at Iris then back at Hermione, worry marking her face. They will definitely be talking about this later. “I’ll just finish up cutting and wrapping the cake, and then we can have a bit of your birthday lunch, yeah?”

Hermione nods solemnly to her mother then wiggles the little hand she holds, “Want to race?”

Iris laughs as she takes off, staggering to a stop to fumble with the locked door before running off again while Hermione pretends to pursue at a jog just behind.

***

_Meanwhile . . ._

Draco is so far out of his comfort zone he _should_ be either lost in the depths of a tantrum or panic attack, but he is neither. Instead, he is thoroughly enjoying himself in a careless way that is at once strange and relieving. 

The extended Grangers don’t know him from Adam and the other magical folk he counted as classmates who do know the worst of him have seemingly tacitly agreed not to mention any of it. His mother isn’t here to monitor his every move. Astoria isn’t here to . . . Well, he’s fairly certain she doesn’t mean to make him feel like jumping off a bridge when they spend time together. Hermione and her parents have been nothing but complimentary when introducing him, and his aunt is looking at him with something he’s rarely seen directed at him before: pride. He can’t remember the last time he has felt so free to be fully _himself_. 

Maybe this is the first time. 

Croquet has devolved into a hilarious game of chase with Edward running as fast as his little legs can carry him and Draco following after, just behind. Somehow this further degenerates when he catches up with the boy a little too quickly, the small body tangles about his knees and they are both suddenly falling, Draco twisting to take the hit first as Edward fairly asphyxiates with laughter. 

His button down and denims are grass stained and he’s certain there are clumps of dirt and blades of grass in his hair; but as he lifts Edward (now blond and gray-eyed) up above his prone form and wiggles the boy into gales of drooling laughter, he isn’t anything less than thoroughly delighted.

“Oi, Malfoy. Stop hogging the poppet.” A flash of red in his peripheral. Fucking Weasley. 

Lowering Edward to sit on his chest, Draco aims an expectant look at the man standing above him. “He’s fine where he is.” As if verifying, Edward leans forward, resting belly-to-belly atop his older cousin, head nestled just beneath Draco’s chin and little hands resting on either side of Draco’s neck. “See?”

Weasley’s eyes roll inside his head. “He needs to _eat_ and _drink_ something, you great wanker. It’s been over an hour in this heat.”

Draco sighs and runs his hand over Edward’s warm head, pressing a kiss to his baby fine hair. “Very well.” He sits up with little effort – a testament to the hours spent at the boxing gym, and hands Edward off with little drama. 

Standing, he surveys the small groups standing around the yard, the bodies sitting at the covered picnic table sharing food and tea and conversations. He had seen Hermione move into the house a few minutes ago before getting caught up in Edward. He searches for her now, his eyes hungry for the vision of her in those artlessly sloppy low braids, that demure sunflower yellow sundress that frames her breasts perfectly (even with the thin blue cardigan to cover her arms) and showcases her sweet little knees in a way that makes him want to part them wide and trace up her thighs with fingertips and mouth. 

Instead, Weasley returns holding a plate laden to near spilling with sausage rolls, vegetables, pinwheels and finger sandwiches. He’s chomping on something Draco can’t identify and standing near enough to Draco while being distant enough from the rest of the party-goers that Draco becomes curiouser and curiouser as to what the ginger man _wants_.

He simply can’t imagine Weasel has sought him out for simple chitchat. They simply don’t have that sort of rapport. (Or any . . . that doesn’t involve antagonism, regardless of his apology. Some trespasses simply aren’t so easily forgiven or forgotten.)

Granted, things between them are better than they were. Draco thinks Pretty in Pink has more to do with that than anything else. Even now, the Weasel’s wife (ironically dressed in a rose tunic as well as pink, yellow and white plaid trousers) is watching them with a sanguine smile, one arm cradling a sleeping baby Weasley and the other resting over a protruding baby bump.

“Look, Malfoy,” the Weasel says between chews, smacking his lips and breathing loudly through his nose. Draco doesn’t know what offends him more – the talking while eating or the eating without a table and proper utensils. “I don’t like you.”

Flatly. “The feeling is mutual.” 

“You tried to poison me.”

A scoff. “It was an accident, and I _apologized_.”

“You’re a spoiled, repugnant arse, and I don’t know how you’ve _ferreted_ your way into the Grangers’ good graces.”

Smirking. “Charm and good looks go a long way . . . but you wouldn’t know about that.”

Weasley chokes and coughs and coughs and coughs while Draco snickers. “Fuck you, Malfoy.” The ginger stuffs something else in his mouth. “Despite all of that, Hermione – somehow – likes you.”

“Her taste in friends has noticeably improved.”

He sees the punch coming but doesn’t dodge, the sting reaching into his bicep. “I wanted to punch your face in when you started ignoring her.”

“You should have. I deserved it.” That seems to take the Weasel aback, blue eyes trained on Draco so heavily, he imagines he can feel the heat of it burning into his skin, unpleasantly. 

“Damn right.” They both look out at the other attendees. Potter is talking with Hermione’s Nana and Grand-father, her uncle and Richard are in deep discussion with Longbottom – most likely about gardening by the hand gestures, Lovegood is telling the newly arrived aunts Merlin only knows while the oldest Weasley and his Veela wife nod in agreement, the Patil twins are arguing with Thomas and Finnigan, and his aunt is speaking softly to the Weaslette and Pretty In Pink while she feeds a fidgeting Edward. “I love Hermione more than I dislike you, so I propose a truce of sorts.”

The first Draco whole-heartedly agrees with (notwithstanding a tinge of jealousy), the second shocks him into full attention. “Do you, now?”

“Yes, you slimy git-faced pillock.” The Weasel crumples his empty “paper” plate into one palm, thrusting out the other in an offer to shake on it. Draco glances at the hand that has just handled food, fingers that have been licked and sucked on afterwards and aims his eyes heavenward before closing them, blindly reaching out his own hand. Joined hands are pumped once, twice before disengaging, Draco discreetly rubbing his hands on his denims. 

He will be washing them thoroughly as soon as he is able.

They subside, each watching the others, shoulders tense before Draco grits out, “This doesn’t mean we’re _friends_ , Weasel.”

The (slightly) taller man makes a noise – somewhere between a cough and a grunt. “Don’t have to tell me, Ferret.”

“We all sorted then?” He moves to intercept Hermione as she jogs out after the younger birthday girl. He feels a spark of concern when he sees the closed expression on her face so in contrast to her open body language as she catches and tickles young Iris, the skirt of her dress catching the breeze and swishing about her legs; but before he can get very far, a strong hand closes over his elbow. 

“I’m not done talking to you, Malfoy.” 

Turning to face the other man, Draco builds up his walls. “Then _get on with it_ , Weasley.” He had been enjoying himself up until this point and he is ready to get back to it, thank you very much.

“Look,” Weasley starts, fidgeting and obviously uncomfortable, “I wanted to say . . . _thanks_ for watching out for Hermione the way you did.” He sighs, “Since she’s been away from wizarding parts, we’ve been worried about her.”

Draco unconsciously seeks her out, finding that she’s watching them from across the yard even as Longbottom speaks to her, obviously concerned. “She’s remarkably easy to worry about.” She is fingering the left sleeve of her cardigan nervously, and he wishes darkly that she didn’t have to wear it. He wants to see her shoulders, the small slope of them, if they are covered in freckles. If they blush as beautifully as her face and neck do.

Weasley’s gaze is piercing. “Remarkably easy to love, too.” 

The words wash over him though he doesn’t really hear them. His attention is too focused on the fantasy of being nearer to her; the freedom and permission to touch her; and the texture, scent, and taste of her skin. His cock twitches in his trousers, a warning.

As if in answer, the Weasel steps into his line of sight, blocking his view of Hermione. “If you don’t want her aunts buggering about, you need to stop eye-fucking Hermione.”

Completely caught off guard, Draco blinks away the after image of Hermione cooing at a newly wakened baby Weasley. “ _I beg your pardon_?” What the blooming bollocks is Weasel on about now? Malfoys do not engage in _eye-fucking_ or any other sort of weird ocular perversion this berk can think up.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. You were eye-fucking her at Harry’s birthday, too. I’m amazed Hermione hasn’t cottoned on yet.” 

Harry’s birthday . . . He had been so surprised (and pleased) when Hermione had invited him (though he suspected her brand of kindness was due to an assumption that he might be lonely). It was held at a ‘public’ pool near Hermione’s neighborhood; and his instructions were simply to wear swim trunks, a shirt, and shoes easily removed. 

When he had arrived at Granger’s home via floo (apparating into somene’s home unannounced is the very height of rudeness), Granger had been waiting for him, seated primly at the edge of the sofa, her hair down and curls relaxed – longer than he remembered – the ends hugging her upper arms. She was dressed in a white terrycloth hooded shirt with no sleeves and a zipper in front that hung over-long, the hem barely skimming her upper thighs. 

He had pretended his cheeks weren’t heated at the vision of so much bare skin, but it didn’t escape his attention that her face was similarly pinked. 

“Why aren’t you wearing swim trunks?” She stood and flung out an arm in seeming exasperation. The glare of a pristinely white bandage was wrapped conspicuously around her other forearm. 

Pushing down the guilt and anger he always felt when presented with his aunt’s cruelty, Draco smirked, “See something you like, Granger?” Honestly, she should know he wasn’t sure what ‘trunks’ were. He had worn what he generally did when swimming: calecons that fell to just below the knee and a white tee shirt. Modesty was always in style after all. 

She had snorted despite the deepening of her blush. “I have towels, sunscreen and goggles. We’ll probably go somewhere to eat afterward.” Without a word, he stepped forward to take up the floral duffle she was hefting.

“That’s fine, but you still haven’t answered my question.” 

“And I’m not going to, you conceited knobhead.”

He had laughed as he trailed behind her to the car, his eyes drinking in the arresting curvature of her calves, the delicate taper of her ankles. They had argued good-naturedly all the way to the pool, his laughter booming between them when Hermione had become frustrated enough to slap him.

As he handed her out of the car, he had been struck by the thought that he was glad he had come. He and Potter were in a better place now than they had ever been at Hogwarts or during the war. They had a concrete understanding . . . almost a pleasant sort of casual acquaintance. For time with Hermione, it wasn’t a chore to celebrate the Boy Who Lived Again and Again’s birthday.

Of course, they hadn’t been in the pool area for two seconds before Draco noticed the posted rules. 

“People WEE in the pool?” He had been so scandalized, and Hermione’s hiccupping giggles at his expense didn’t help. She explained that some kids can’t control their bladders before pointing out, “Did you think the ocean or the pond or the Black Lake are made of purified water in which no living thing makes waste?”

He had been further appalled as everyone dumped their things beneath a covered area with long benches and began to _disrobe_. Weasley and the Weaslette were the only ones similarly covered as he was, shucking their shoes off. Potter was stripping off his shirt, and Granger – Granger was laughing at something Potter was saying while _fucking unzipping her shirt_.

He had just moved to shield her when the white terrycloth opened to reveal –

A sharp smack to the back of his head derails his thoughts and banishes the memory being replayed, “You’re fucking doing it again! 

Draco glares over at the red-headed ignoramus and strives to not think about endless sun-kissed skin swathed in two very scant pieces of fabric. “I’m not doing anything, half-wit!” Doesn’t think about the world’s most perfectly formed breasts clad in seafoam green or the precious dip of Hermione’s exposed navel. 

He wasn’t nearly humble enough to own how he had scowled at her repeated insistence that her swimsuit was perfectly acceptable and appropriate, how he had stared a little too long as water sluiced down her body, how he had mentally hexed every male-type person who had looked her way or got too close as she splashed about, laughing and sputtering in the pool with her friends.

The sight had filled him with something glowing hot, tempered and inexplicably sweet. Water play had put him in countless positions to touch her, to venture close and press into her compact little body. She fit so fucking perfectly into him, and he could still feel the texture of her skin beneath his hands, remember the width of her hips, the arch of her bum cradled to his pelvis – if only momentarily.

She had looked so apologetic in those few and far between instances. But he couldn’t find it in him to feel guilty at all. Not even when his every wank since has featured her in that cursed ‘bikini’, not even when faced with Astoria.

“Damn right you’re doing nothing.” Weasley grouses, his fiery blue gaze fixed to burn. “You’re fucking engaged. So if you’re planning to make a move on my friend, you had better break your contract with Greengrass first. Hermione isn’t the type of woman you put last.”

Feeling as if he’s been sucker punched, Draco stares, shocked, at the boy he had so easily dismissed for no other reason than a family feud no one really knew the origins of anymore. Weasley is right. So fucking right. Hermione deserves to be first. The woman of a man’s life should be first. He hadn’t even given that kind of courtesy to Astoria, and he is supposed to be marrying her.

Instead, he was always putting his parents first. Now, his mother.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Weasel,” he says honestly, a now-familiar ache spreading through his chest. “I plan on honoring my agreement with the Greengrasses, regardless of my . . . one-sided regard for Granger.”

Weasel gapes for a moment before moving to walk away and mumbling, “Well, it’s no fucking wonder you were such shit at catching the snitch at school. You’re obviously fucking blind.” 

***

Hermione tries to be discreet watching Draco and Ron standing at the edge of the yard, talking . . . relatively calmly. Ron’s face holds its usual stormy cast when interacting with Malfoy, but there had been no signs of escalation or violence. As the seconds and minutes tick forward, she begins to relax. 

She wanders from guest to guest, trying to be a good hostess – asking if refills are needed, if rubbish needs to be disposed of, conversing where engaged, and playing when a child shows interest. 

She’s just accepted a reaching Victoire into her arms and started for her dad’s vegetable garden to show the baby when Ginny intrudes with the very unexpected, “You need to stop eye fucking Malfoy.”

Hermione very nearly drops Victoire. Woodenly, slowly, “I beg your pardon?” The juxtaposition of just learning her baby cousin is a witch to this scene – being accused of making some weird ocular sexual advance – is more than jarring. It’s mind-numbing.

Blithely, Ginny helpfully clarifies. “The eye fucking. I swear, it’s like watching American porn with clothes and it has to stop. I’m in danger of creaming my knickers whenever you two occupy the same general vicinity, and I don’t have spares on me.”

At a complete loss and unsure how to diffuse this . . . bizarre conversation, Hermione stutters, “I – I . . . We don’t . . . optically fornicate.” Ginny looks like Christmas has come early and she’s been presented with a choice stash of presents. Hermione soldiers on, glaring, “You don’t even see us together that often, Ginny.”

“Oh, I saw enough of the eye fucking at Harry’s birthday. It’s amazing you managed to keep your suit on the whole time with the way Malfoy was obviously trying to incinerate it with his eyes.” When Ginny had been planning Harry’s birthday, Hermione had suggested swimming at the public swimming pool rather than the pond at the Burrow before asking if she could invite Draco along. 

On the day of, he – at first- had refused to go into the water after seeing the pool rules, sitting on the shaded bleachers wearing a sour look, a thick chalky layer of sunblock, _calecons_ and a white t-shirt. Everytime she checked in with him he seemed frustrated with life and everything, particularly Hermione’s bikini which he complained about **constantly** to everyone’s amusement but Hermione’s.

He had finally – forcefully - entered the watery fray when a muggle boy a few years younger than them had volunteered to be Hermione’s partner for a game of chicken fight. She could still feel the imprint of Draco’s fingers on her, the solid stability of his shoulders under her, the way his hands ran over her thighs when she was perched there.

Even now, remembering, she can’t help but close her eyes to savor the phantom sensations echoing through her body.

Since that group outing, Draco has visited the Burrow for Sunday dinner twice and attended Ginny’s birthday bender at the Three Broomsticks. Each event he never strayed far from her side.

Hermione shakes her head, feeling like she’s been transported into an episode of the _Twilight Zone_ (and considering her experience attending a magical school, surviving attacks by a troll and a werewolf, flying on a threstral _and_ dragon, and fighting a war against dark wizards, that’s saying something). “We spend time together and enjoy each other’s company. We’re friends and that’s all we will ever be.” _Drop it, Ginny._ “How goes the wedding planning?”

Ginny follows Hermione behind a wall of twisting vines of string beans, between rows of cabbage and cucumber. “Mmhhhmmmm. Friends that fuck each other’s eyes out when you’re within a mile of each other. Want to tell me about that? It’s just us girls here, and planning is going well, thanks.” She picks up a scotch egg from the plate she has brought with her, bites into it. 

Hermione subdues the urge to kick dirt on Ginny’s new sandals. “I don’t even know what any of that means.”

It is at this moment, that the pile of dung Hermione’s life has become is freshly shit on as Ron and Harry appear, circling from behind them _as if this were a planned ambush._

“What does what mean?” Ron asks, echoing Hermione.

Giving Hermione a pointed look, she asks, “Ron, what have Malfoy and Hermione been doing for weeks that they need to stop?”

With a serious if strangely weary face, Ron turns to Hermione, “You and Malfoy need to stop eye fucking. Aria is already randy enough. Big Ronnie doesn’t have much more to give without chafing something awful,” Hermione and Ginny both reach out to smack him while raining down a chorus of _eeeewww_ , “and when you two are in the same room, it’s like . . . it’s like –“

“It’s like we’re trapped in a Barry White album on infinite loop.” Harry breaks in, giving Hermione an arch look.

When she notices Ron’s confusion, Ginny adds, “All foreplay and no follow through.”

Everyone but Hermione (who is holding a _baby_ and gaping like a fish) seems to agree with this assessment. Honestly, it’s downright insanity, how quickly they have (reluctantly) taken to Draco, how accepting they seem to be of this imagined two-way attraction they’re spouting about, and how _insultingly_ they would think she is the type of girl to entertain an attraction to an engaged man. 

“Enough of this madness. Malfoy and I are _friends_. We do not . . . do what you’re talking about. He’s bloody _engaged_. I am _still fucking angry_ at all of you for not cluing me in on the aforementioned engagement. And we’re at a child’s birthday for goodness sake! Talking about this here is completely inappropriate and utterly rude towards Miss Greengrass who can’t defend herself.” She shoos them with a pointed tilt to her chin. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish showing Victoire this lovely little garden.” 

She turns her back to them, head pounding and ears ringing with temper, hears them shuffle away; and then . . . 

“He’s really engaged?” Harry’s voice precedes a warm weight on her shoulder. She knows he can feel the tension aching through her body. 

“Can we talk about _anything_ else? Like, how is your training going? Has Robbards had enough of your tomfoolery yet?” Silence and a small jostle. She huffs, defeated. “Yes. He . . . he told me earlier this week.” An indelicate snort. “Apparently, _everyone_ else knew and forgot to tell me.”

She can feel Harry’s sigh, soft against her nape as he slides his hand across her neck in a protective embrace. “I heard rumors but wasn’t sure. He’s never mentioned, and I see him almost as often as you do at the Ministry.”

So she wasn’t the only one left in the dark. Blinking back tears she thought had run out, she decides to let go her humiliation, cuddles a squirming Victoire close, focuses on the sound of her little breaths and grunts, takes in the comforting scent of her baby shampoo. “He told me after . . . after I screwed up the courage to ask him out to dinner.”

Harry’s arm tightens a little as he presses his lips to her temple. “I knew you liked him. Whenever you see him or talk about him lately, there’s this glow about you I’ve never seen before.” He says it so calmly, so matter-of-fact, something in her she didn’t know was pinched in tight, releases.

“Not even with Ron?”

“Not even with Ron.”

She turns in his arms and encircles him in her own free one, sandwiching the baby, resting her body against his, letting him hold her up. “You know . . . . He, he thought I was asking him to dinner to talk more about work. It never occurred to him that maybe I meant a date. I don’t know if that’s a comment on me or . . . continued prejudice or . . . .”

Harry begins to sway them a bit, rubbing circles around her upper back with an open palm. I reminds her of listening to Lee Jordan on the wireless under a tent in the middle of a forest. “Neither, I suspect. If I had to guess, I would say it never occurred to him to think you would ask him on a date.”

They begin to sway in circles, but he doesn’t move to twirl her. Her headache begins to subside, tears continue to prick her eyes. She doesn’t fight them. “It just . . . I thought he could see _me_. Not just . . . the clever bookworm or the . . . _insufferable swot_ ,” she giggles thickly, taking a bit of tissue when Harry conjures it, “or the upstart creature crusader.” This time Harry joins her in laughter as she tightens her arm around him. “And it was nice . . . to be seen for just a moment. To feel wanted for all of me rather than just my brain or my past deeds.”

Harry pinches her shoulder lightly but doesn’t say anything as he’s started humming, charmingly off-key.

Hermione closes her eyes. “But I guess it’s all for the best. I do have work to keep me occupied, after all; and that’s what I should be focusing on.” She levels her best friend with a scrutinizing eye. “I’m actually rather surprised. You and Ron have reacted so well to this . . . friendship and just now, Ron was joking about the . . . ocular . . . thing.”

Harry buries his face in her shoulder and tweaks Victoire’s nose as he chuckles, “Don’t ever change, Hermione.” When he calms enough, he lifts his head and she can see tears of mirth standing in the corners of his eyes behind the glasses. “I’ve gotten to know Malfoy a bit . . . as much as anyone can know him, anyway. Honestly, the bloke is like a fucking high-security vault. And . . . I have to admit, he’s . . . not as much of a git as he used to be.” He leans forward to press a kiss to Hermione’s forehead, his expression nearly pained. “Don’t give up just yet, okay?”

She gives a deep sigh, feeling warm and loved and drowsy. “It’s really not a question of giving up. He’s getting married, and I would never try to get between a happy couple.” A pause. “And I really do have a lot of work to do if I want to get a muggle-born integration program off the ground.”

“I don’t think he’s all that happy with the match, Hermione. Happy partners want the world to know how much they love their significant others. Draco _never_ mentions his engagement or fiancée.”

Hermione lifts her head to meet her friend’s gaze directly. “Harry, whether he’s satisfied with Astoria is immaterial. He made a choice and is _getting married_. The best I can hope for is that he’ll continue our Tuesday lunches without ever knowing I held . . . other fledgling feelings for him.” She pulls on one his ears with a sad smile pursing her lips as she steps away. 

Harry’s steady gaze is at once challenging and galvanizing. “Trust me on this. Don’t give up.”

Shaking her head, Hermione just gives him a non-committal half-smile as she gentles a braid from Victoire’s grip. 

He leaves Hermione to the baby’s grabby hands and the rustling leaves and the smell of earth, wishing more than anything that she had the freedom to hide in a corner and knit her fingers raw.

She spends the next several minutes, showing Victoire different parts of the plants – leaves, stems, flowers, the vegetables themselves. She lets the baby take them, handle them, feel them. Sometimes, Hermione skims the material over Victoire’s soft skin, brushes it against her cheeks and under her little nose. 

Eventually, she realizes it’s been a while, and she should really stop hiding away. Victoire seems to agree, grasping Hermione’s chin with both hands and pushing up, sculpting a gruesome kind of smile that coaxes a real one. 

***

Draco swears under his breath as he downs his drink – tea, of course, and watches as Ginger 1 and Ginger 2 chase a baby-laden Hermione behind a mass of vegetating vines. He had been hoping to catch her attention, to approach her. 

All day, he had been keen to talk to Hermione about a variety of things: like the Board of Governors’ vote, her book and whether she was planning a release party, and her silence about the consultant initiative. He had also wanted her opinion on a few ideas he had for future business investments and discuss the possibility of a meeting with Lucius.

But more than that, he wanted to discuss his first therapy session with Dr. Ufuoma, though he knew he probably wouldn’t. 

A birthday luncheon wasn’t the most ideal place or time for that sort of socializing.

“Meggie, darling.” An unfamiliar voice sounds just behind him.

“Yes, dearest.” His hand itches for his wand.

“I do believe I have spotted a most elusive _dragon_.” Slowly, he turns.

“Good gracious, a dragon?” A petite woman in a short-sleeved denim dress and red-rimmed glasses smiles and wiggles her fingers, bright blue eyes glittering with mischief. She is rounded and chubby but exudes a youthful energy that is hard to ignore or resist. Her brown hair is cropped short about her ears, a tuft stubbornly announcing itself at the back of her head. 

A second woman says, “Aye, love. A golden dragon.” She is taller, slimmer with a boyish figure and sunglasses perched atop a pile of haphazard auburn curls. Her eyes are the same brown as Hermione’s and freckles are scattered across library pale skin. She is wearing a white linen button down and some sort of cropped trousers in a depressing shade of green with countless pockets.

The spectacled one steps closer, faux tentative and barely holding back her chuckles. “Would this be the very ghastly brute whom seeks to steal our precious Nee-Nee?”

Draco mouths, _Ghastly brute_? And points to himself silently, unwilling to break whatever these two are playing at. He’s already deduced their identities. Their reputations have preceded them.

The taller one taps a finger to her lips before addressing the spectacled one. “Indeed, my lady sister. The veriest.”

Peering over her glasses in Draco’s direction, the aunt-in-blue pretends at alarm. “Whatever shall we do with this vile reptilian interloper, dearest Oslo?”

Draco barks out a laugh at that one. He’s self-aware enough to know that – had the two been anyone else – he might have taken offense to their antics. Instead, he finds himself wanting to join in.

The aunt-of-many-pockets grins confidently, “Why, we go a-dragon hunting, darling; and I daresay, this one may give us some trouble.”

“Yes, yes.” Meggie says, breathless. “But is that so surprising, dearest? He hath been accosted by the yellow-bellied weasel. Are they not ominous harbingers of bad fortune?” 

Draco couldn’t agree with her more.

“Of a certainty, love. The Dragon cur’s luck has tragically run out. Hence our hunt.”

Draco covers his mouth with one hand, growling, his ears heating. For all the two women look nothing alike, there is something about them – a palpable connection – that intrinsically _feels_ like they are true siblings.

Aunt-in-blue’s gaze turns sharply to her partner-in-. . . hunting. “The fiend, he growls at us! Shall we have weapons, my Oslo? I should very much enjoy to wield a harpoon.” Aunt-of-many-pockets doesn’t release his gaze. “Meggie dear, we do not bring harpoons to children’s birthday luncheons. It simply isn’t done.”

Draco holds his breath to keep from laughing. “Perhaps the glaive would be a more appropriate choice.”

Fully committed to her role, Meggie turns comically wide-eyes to give him a deliberate once over, “He speaks, my sister! The dragon does speak and mock our most honorable occupation!” 

The one called “Oslo” – of the many pockets – steps forward with arms crossed and a calculating sort of expression. “Well then, darling, he must be of an _intelligent_ sort. Mayhap we can dispense with unpleasantries and prevent further atrocities?”

The blue one called “Meggie” giggles like a girl of a much younger age, nods and extends her hand. “Greetings Mr. Malfoy. I’m Hermione’s aunt Meggie Granger. We’ve heard so much about you from Helen.”

He holds her hand in his, bows over it in respect. She _flutters_ , and he wonders not for the first time how Muggle men charm their women. They all seem so strongly affected by traditional pureblood gallantry. 

The taller of the two steps forward, offering an unexpected hug that Draco is thoroughly unprepared for. He stiffens as her arms enfold him in a scent and warmth not unlike Hermione’s. She lingers, leaning back only to mutter in his ear, “You hurt my Nee-Nee, I break your legs.” Then she is patting his back and shoulders, releasing him. “I’m Richard’s sister, also Hermione’s aunt and god-mother. Everyone calls me Oslo.”

Still shivering from the threat (really, he has no reason not to believe her when the rest of the family is so similarly, loyally violent). “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, Mrs. Granger and Ms. Granger,” he nods to each in turn. “I assure you I only have Hermione’s best interests and happiness at heart, . . . and I have already been thoroughly oriented to the repercussions of harming her in any way.” 

Not only from the Grangers. Potter had cornered him after the third Tuesday lunch with Hermione to inform him of the mutilation that would be reaped upon his bollocks should Hermione’s feelings or person be altered. Weasley had owled him a Howler of rambling threats, the gist of which was the same as Potter’s with the addendum that his body would never be found. Even Weaslette and Pretty-In-Pink had felt the need to establish consequences for bad behavior against their friend with the former proposing a life-long non-refundable bat bogey hex and the latter apologizing for her husband’s crudeness while stating she would aid said crude husband in any endeavors to uphold and defend Hermione’s honor.

Scarier still was Helen’s own brand of warning which had consisted of being seated to ready-made tea before his and Hermione’s second lunch then summarily enduring Helen’s unerring stare for long minutes. He had barely taken two sips of his tea when he realized Helen wasn’t drinking hers. When he got up the courage to ask after her strange behavior, she simply said if he treated her daughter with anything less than dignity and respect, he would never know what she put in his tea until it was too late. When he had indicated his understanding, she had simply smiled, sipped her tea, and wished him and Hermione a lovely lunch.

Meggie’s smile seems to sparkle so brightly, Draco absently wonders if there is a bit of magical creature somewhere in her ancestry though it escapes him which creature would produce such results. “We just heard that you’re engaged, Mr. Malfoy. Allow me to extend my congratulations.”

Something in him quails at the sentiment as it always does when people mention his impending marriage; but he doesn’t want to spoil the day or this first impression with his private troubles. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to extend your well-wishes to my bride-to-be.”

Oslo quirks a brow, “Oh? Was she not invited? That doesn’t sound like our Nee-Nee.” Meggie slams a sharp elbow into the other woman’s stomach. 

“You don’t have to answer that, Mr. Malfoy. We hope the future Mrs. Malfoy’s absence is not due to any illness or other unfortunate reason.”

Oslo is rubbing her stomach but isn’t having it. “Yes, please do answer. I should like to better understand the nature of your relationship with my favorite niece.”

Meggie clears her throat, and Oslo automatically, “ _One of my favorite nieces_.”

Unsure about how to process this conversation, Draco suddenly wishes the Weasel were here to buffer. His eyes search and find (what had Meggie called him?) the yellow-bellied weasel exiting the little patch of garden Hermione had wandered into with the baby Weasley tucked up in her arms, followed closely by his sister. If memory served, Potter had gone in there too; but he doesn’t come out with the others, and Hermione remains away from prying eyes as well. “Astoria was invited, but had a previous engagement.” 

The truth is, Astoria was invited, but Draco had neglected to extend the invitation.

“Well, that’s truly a shame,” Meggie says kindly, reaching out to smooth a hand over his arm in a gesture she’s probably done countless times to family members. “You’ll have to forgive _Cressida_. She’s a bit rough about the edges and very protective of our Nee-Nee.”

The _Cressida_ in question glares at Meggie while Draco nods, darting his gaze between the two vastly different women. “It’s fine.” And then, “I’ve actually never been to a birthday luncheon before.” He’s been to birthday galas, balls, champagne socials, and operas – nothing so child-centric as this. “It’s quite enjoyable.”

It’s an understatement. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt so full, so _alive_ and present. _Safe_. There are children – those who can, run; those who can’t are content to be passed around, bounced and coo’ed at. Conversations are jovial, multiple and – sometimes - unapologetically loud. Smiles are easy and genuine. No one seems over-concerned with propriety. Some are in their bare feet and standing as they eat unpretentious, common food while others are content to sit and watch, eat or drink. 

It’s so different from what his kind consider a social gathering to be – formal, proprietary, ambition driven affairs where every word and gesture is dissected and analyzed for insult, interest, and ulterior meaning. Every interaction is choreographed, every subject is specifically chosen and rehearsed ahead of time to ensure upward mobility and ‘victory’ over your neighbor. During those events, even the food and wine are utilized as potential vehicles of opportunity.

Given all of that, aside from the absence of his mother and the minor tete-a-tete with Weasel, Draco cannot imagine a more perfect day than this – standing in the Grangers’ back yard with their family and his old nemesis and victims, celebrating Granger and the Granger cousin’s birthdays. He wonders to himself if all Muggle gatherings are so agreeable then remembers those two arsemongers at the shopping centre and Helen’s egg donor. He realizes yet again how Muggle families can be just as fucked up as wizarding ones.

Meggie grins and pats his arm then squeezes just a smidge while letting out a low whistle. “We’re so glad to have you. I understand you know Hermione from school?”

Oslo frowns. “The boarding school.” Her expression clears, eyes bright. “Now that I think about it, she did mention a Draco Malfoy in a letter years ago. I didn’t see it myself but Helen mentioned . . . Did you read an entire textbook or some such?”

He remembers Helen mentioning that Hermione had written about him. One day he would have to find out just how much Hermione had shared with her family. “Yes, it was a personal goal of mine to have all of my textbooks read before the Ho—train ride to school each year.” It was one of the things he had initially liked about Hermione as well – that she valued her education, that she was always prepared.

Oslo and Meggie share a look that is at once mysterious and fear-inducing. It’s Meggie who smiles and says, “Then it’s no wonder you and Hermione are so close.” Draco opens his mouth to protest that they are friends but aren’t _close_ (at least, not close enough), but she continues, “Poor thing was beyond bored in primary. She would read everything she could get her hands on. I begged and pleaded with Richard and Helen to get that girl tested and into a program for gifted children; and though Hermione was eventually given permission to sit in more advanced classes, she left for . . . that boarding school before she could actually do so.”

But, apparently, Oslo was not _really_ joking earlier and is actively hunting: for information. “Yes, what was that school called again? I’m horrible with names.”

With those words, Weasley’s warning comes back to haunt him and though the weather is more warm than hot and there is a pleasant breeze stirring the air around them, Draco is suddenly very aware of the sticky sensation of sweat beneath his clothes, dotting his forehead and coating his palms. _How much did they actually know? What should I say?_ All it would take is one small slip and the Ministry would descend upon him like a dementor at Azkaban. 

“It was Strathallan.” Helen says flatly as she walks toward them, holding an interested Victoire mouthing a handful of dark hair.

Aunt Meggie – unbelievably – brightens even more when she sees the baby, reaching out her hands in a grabby fashion and _aaaaahhhh_ ing into a string of baby-talk. Victoire seems to accept the hand-off, baby blue eyes holding Meggie’s for a few moments before directing her attention down and grasping the pearls wrapped around the woman’s throat.

Draco scans the yard, realizing he had last seen baby Weasley with Hermione. He finds her sitting with Luna and the Pavarti sisters. She’s grinning with shining eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. Whatever she is saying is something she is excited about, her exuberance reflected in the speed of her words and the gravity of her face. He knows he is smiling, can feel the curve of it carved on his lips even as Oslo takes Helen’s arm and shakes her. 

“We were just discussing how he and Hermioine know each other, ducks.”

“You were harassing him, you mean. I’ve never forgotten what you did to Ron and Harry the first time you met them. You won’t be getting away with such poor behavior with Draco.”

The Aunt-of-many-pockets shows no sign of remorse, and Draco suppresses the desire to ask after what was done to the Weasel that so obviously agitates Helen. “I only do these things to protect our Nee-Nee, love.” 

Scoffing, Helen’s finger works to bring some form of order to her saliva matted hair even as her hazel eyes snap to Draco. “She didn’t say anything offensive, did she?”

Draco is opening his mouth to reply when Meggie – again – interrupts in the best way. “Good lord, Hels, of course not. Now what say you we take our excessively buggering questions and leave off this young man to further enjoy the festivities in peace?” She takes Oslo’s arm with her free hand and kicks out at Helen’s feet, turning her head back to Draco, “Lovely to meet you, dear. Feel free to visit us anytime, and Congratulations again.”

Oslo echoes her with narrowed eyes and an added, “Maybe next time you can tell me more about Hermione at school” as Helen flicks her ear and says in a low voice, “I need you to come by tomorrow if you’re free. There’s some things Hermione and I would like to discuss before you return to Norway.”

Draco watches them walk away, Victoire’s wide, innocent eyes watching him seriously over Meggie’s shoulder. 

_***_

The birthday luncheon goes on longer than expected, everyone enjoying each other’s company so well time passes quickly without real notice. Andromeda and Edward are the first to leave when it is well into the afternoon. William Weasley, his Veela wife and infant are next. Finnigan and Thomas say their good-byes next along with the Patils. It is nearing evening when Lovegood and Longbottom circle about to give hugs, kisses and handshakes where appropriate – even to Draco. 

It takes longer for the Weasel and his wife, Potter and his Weaslette, and the Granger relatives to take their leave. Draco remains to help with the cleanup, more because he feels this draw to be near these people he’s become so attached to than a real desire to help (though, there is that and a genuine newly discovered satisfaction in the motions), although – if pressed – he would confess he’s really only here for Hermione. Yet, even so close - brushing past each other repeatedly, standing side by side doing dishes in a familiar tandem, and arguing about what areas to clean up first and the most efficient way to dispose of the rubbish - he doesn’t feel satisfied. 

Now, he sits in the garage near the kitchen door, arms stretched across his bent knees. The sun is low enough to bathe the world in a cast of orange, shadows growing longer against the pavement from what he can see beneath the half-raised garage door. 

Maybe he should leave. He doesn’t want to wear out his welcome; however, this unrest, it gnaws at his nerves, a selfish desire he doesn’t have the strength to deny when he has already uncharacteristically denied himself so much and so often.

There is a shuffling nearby, the chaotic shifting of shadows then the object of his thoughts appears, bending to step beneath the garage door and into the work space. “Draco? You’re still here?”

He takes his time studying her, wondering if the skin of her legs is as smooth as they look. When his gaze settles on her face, angled down to study _him_ , he notes she seems more confused than put out. Perhaps she wants to talk to him as much as he wants to talk to her. “I wanted to talk to you.”

She grazes one hand over the area of her cursed scar, shoulders tense and high. “I’m really not in the mood to talk right now. There’s . . . a situation I have to sort out; and –” The words trailed off as he unfolds and straightens to his full height, concern caging his chest.

“What is it?”

Blinking, she shakes her head, wide-eyed. “No, no. Everything’s fine . . . I just made a shocking discovery today, and I’m not certain how to process it.”

He nods, silent. If she doesn’t want to confide in him, he can respect that. They haven’t reached that precipice where everything and anything can be laid upon the table without censure. It’s a place he’s never been and doesn’t know that he would even be able to recognize mirrored back to him.

A tentative smile cracks the world-weary tension on her face. “I’ll tell you about it soon. I promise.”

It takes every bit of self-restraint not to jealously ask if she has discussed this mysterious ‘shocking discovery’ with Potter and Weasel. Instead, he tells her, “I had fun today. Thank you for the invitation.”

Her expression turns strange before her mouth twists and a sharp laugh crackles from them as if it is a sound that has been held back for a long time and warped with age. “You know, I can always tell when you’re just saying things because of your breeding. It sounds like you’re reading from a script.” When he tries to assure her he meant it genuinely, she grabs his hand and squeezes his fingers. He tries to pretend her touch doesn’t burn his skin in the best way. “I wanted you to be here. I just wish you felt more comfortable telling me what you really think.”

When she let’s go his hand, he chases the movement, sliding his fingertips along the breadth of her palm, making it seem like an accident. When she moves to circle around him to go into the kitchen, her head down and cheeks pink, he sidesteps to block her at just the right moment so that their bodies collide. “I think it’s fair that I extend an invitation to you in return.”

She squints up at his chin, stepping back though not quickly, “Your birthday isn’t until June.”

_She knows my birthday_. . . “Not a birthday invitation. Rather, a ride on my motorcycle and a visit to my new townhouse.”

“Now?” Her incredulous tone makes him grin.

“Now.”

She glances to the side, scowling at the covered mass of his rebuilt 1974 Honda CB500T with sunburst orange fuel tank and fenders and chrome trim. “You don’t even have a –”

“License?” He pulls out the little piece of rectangular plastic, flashing it at her. “Got it this past Wednesday.”

Fidgeting, she turns back to him more fully, still close enough he can feel her heat seeping through his clothes. “I would need a hel—”

“I have two helmets, just for this very opportunity.” He smirks as her arguments fall apart in the face of his preparedness. The smirk widens as a fresh blush blooms on her cheeks and she steps back as if just realizing how close they are standing. 

It doesn’t matter, he’s imprinted the sensation of her in his mind. He can still smell her fresh scent – grass and baby powder and always, _always_ the hint of wildflowers. It’s easily become one of his favorites, and no, he doesn’t feel guilty about it at all. Life has to be worth living for _something_ after all.

Hermione huffs. “But I’m wearing a dress.” She holds out the skirt as if ready to curtsy then flutters the hem playfully. 

“Then tuck it under you or give London a show, either way, you’re going for a ride.” 

He watches her. He watches as she sucks her bottom lip beneath her fine teeth. He watches as she contemplates the covered bike then turns to him, her brown eyes glossed over with something resembling fear before turning her attention back to the bike. “I . . don’t –”

Before he knows what he’s doing, his hand is on her chin, coaxing her to look at him. “Granger, come for a ride with me. Live a little.”

Her entire form suddenly exudes a grave sort of solemnity that he reminds him of how subdued she sometimes seemed during their fifth and sixth years. “I lived through a war, Malfoy.”

There’s something in the way she says it, some darkness buried in her voice that has been pounded flat but is still alive and waiting for a chance to strike out. “You _fought_ through a war, Granger. I don’t think any of us have actually _lived_ for the sake of living since the noseless bastard came back from the dead.” No . . . from that moment, the second Potter had announced “He’s back” during the Final Task, not a single one of their generation was left a childhood. From that moment, it was all about survival and only about survival.

Sometimes, he thinks Hermione is still trapped in the survivor’s mindset, going about the motions and waiting for the other shoe to drop while dying inside to actively live. A suspicious redness blooms across the whites of her eyes before she blinks several times and softly asks, “You won’t go very fast, will you?”

A wave of unfamiliar tenderness sweeps through him, warming the dark insides of his ribcage with a strangely palpable light, into arms that suddenly feel entirely too empty, then swooping through his stomach. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

The weariness that lined her shoulders and face seems to lift as she grins excitedly and bounces slightly on her feet. “I’ll just go tell my parents, shall I?”

He watches her run into the house, grinning just as excitedly even as he takes a moment to acknowledge this is probably a horrible idea for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is his current relationship status. “I’ll be right here.”

***

It’s half-past-seven and nearly full dark by the time they make it to Malfoy’s townhouse, wind-blown and giddy. Hermione can’t stop giggling. She also can’t stop noticing how often Malfoy watches her, his gaze heavy and sweetly dark. 

As they trip up the path to his town house, she asks him why he chose orange for the bike, and is gobsmacked when he tells her, “It’s your favorite color.” Harry and Ron have known her nearly ten years and they still thing her favorite color is purple and pink respectively.

Her blush is still staining her cheeks when they reach the front door.

He asks her if she minds removing her shoes once inside, and she laughs that she doesn’t. Riding on the motorcycle had been a first for her, a real adventure that had nothing to do with danger and Death Eaters, Horcruxes and giant snakes, and running for her life. Her veins are pumped full of adrenaline – exhilaration rather than horror; and she loves the feeling – the fizz of raw _life_ and _joy_ , a familiar feeling from long ago before real magic became a bittersweet thing that sometimes felt like a regret rather than a gift.

He steadies her when she trips over her removed shoes, chuckling against her breathless giggles as she leans on him for just a moment longer than she probably should. Riding behind him had been nerve-wracking at first, but over the course of their little jaunt she had grown somewhat accustomed to having her arms about his waist, pressing into his strong back. 

Before they left her house, he had instructed her to squeeze him if she needed him to slow down, and as she nodded, straddling the passenger half of the seat and tucking her skirt under her, she realized she trusted him more than she had ever thought possible, then she had to wonder how the hell that had even _happened_. As the ride lengthened and she gave the okay to pick up speed – even confused about its origin - she found that trust to be well-placed as he checked in with her every few miles and slowed when she _did_ begin to feel panicked.

When he switches on the lights, she gasps at her first glimpse of his new living space, so utterly different from the Manor of her – admittedly and justifiably – biased memories. 

In her nightmares, the Manor is dark, the kind of dark that sucks away light before anything can be truly illuminated. The features of the hallways she and her friends are dragged through, the floors, the portraits, and rooms are mere outlines – a geometry of harsh lines and angles that cut as deeply as Bellatrix’s blade.

Draco’s new home – in contrast – is blindingly white and bare of accoutrements except for the most necessary of furnishings, also in shades of white. There isn’t a single splash of color, unless you count a chaotic arrangement of raggedly sharp metal fragments above the fireplace. 

Still giggling – though not as hard - she moves to get a better look, tracing each piece with her eyes and trying to fit them together in her mind like a puzzle. “It’s my mask.” Draco tells her from his spot beside her. “My Death Eater’s mask.”

The giggling stops. She turns her head sharply to him, finding his own attention fixed on her, watching – always watching – for her reaction. An uncomfortable tingle begins in her wrists, branching across her palms into each finger. Biting her lips, she decides to analyze this moment later when she’s alone. 

Instead of responding, she walks the perimeter of the main room, focusing on the sensation of cold tile on her feet, wondering if the room could be any brighter with ambient light coming through the many floor to ceiling windows. There’s a pristine looking plush modular divan hugging one interior corner. Gingerly, she sits, tucking her feet beneath her and staring at Draco expectantly.

He seems nervous, running a hand through his hair, down the back of his neck. “Can I get you something to eat or drink, Granger?” 

It is strange and awkward hearing his voice in this void of silence, where they are well and truly alone in an empty townhouse where – usually – they are surrounded by countless people – witnesses – in open, public places. She smiles gently at him, “I’m fine for right now.” It’s stranger still that she feels so comfortable being alone with him for the first time. “I thought you would have at least one house elf.”

“I do, but he has the weekends off.” There’s something in his expression, something mischievous and tentative at once, and she responds with intrigue and lowered lashes, her hands smoothing over her lap, debating . . . 

“You give your house elf time off?”

His half-grin feels predatory for some reason that she can’t put her finger on. “I pay him too, as much as he’ll accept which is a pittance really. All of the Malfoy house elves are paid, in honor of Dobby’s service and sacrifice.”

“Oh,” she rubs at her eyes, feeling the prickly heat there build, the muscles of her face tightening. For once in her life, she doesn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you’ is trite and arrogant. Silence is disrespectful to both Draco and Dobby. There are a million words that fail to express the bittersweet coil unraveling inside her. In this moment, she is reveling in an epiphany that is at once delightfully unexpected and horribly unfortunate. “That’s . . . Dobby would have liked that.” It’s weak, she knows, a pale vocalization of her inner-most thoughts and convictions; but her heart is too heavy and distracted by this new layer of self-awareness that has previously eluded her.

He doesn’t say anything but drifts to sit with her on the divan, leaving enough space between them for three other people. He leans forward, hands between knees. It’s the most casual posture she’s ever seen him in besides his seat on the garage floor earlier.

She smiles, licks her lips and pretends she doesn’t notice his attention to her mouth. “What was Ron talking to you about earlier?”

Again, that sexy half-grin that makes her feel . . . hunted in an exhilarated way that leaves no room for fear. It’s confusing and she scowls as he says, “Weasel was just reiterating things I already know – that he dislikes me, that he’s an idiot, and that we now have something in common worth putting aside our differences for.”

“His name is _Ronald Weasely_ , Draco. Call him Ron, Ronald, or Weasley – whichever you prefer; but I won’t tolerate you calling him Weasel anymore.”

His grin widens to full. “Welcome back, Granger. I was afraid I had seen the last of your spine on the battlefield.”

Realizing he’s being playful rather than crass, she rolls her eyes and bears her teeth behind her fingers. “Just so you know, Ron and Harry have been similarly chastised about calling you ‘Ferret’.”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Oh really? And yet, I remember _you_ calling me something similar not too long ago.”

Nose in the air, she informs him. “Friend privilege.”

He sighs. “You are such an insufferable –“

“Swot?” She pulls on the ends of her braids, color high and feeling overly warm. “I know.”

“I was actually going to say ‘brat’, but I agree with your self-assessment.”

She gasps and pounces, hitting him about the shoulders and chest as they both laugh, recapturing that carefree atmosphere of their earlier ride. He catches her hands and for a moment, it’s the same look from the shopping centre food court, darkened silver eyes and indefinable tension. She knows better than to interpret it as interest now.

Slowly, she pulls back to her designated area and pushes the crushing disappointment down until she can bear to look at him again. “Still, I’m glad the three of you are able to be civil to one another. I was sort of afraid I would end up being forced to be a go-between.”

“I think we’re mature enough to handle ourselves.” She can’t quite bring herself to raise her gaze to his face, her eyes drawn naturally to his hands, the movement of thumb and forefinger rubbing against each other in an alluring dance that hypnotizes. “You have a wonderful family, Granger.”

That has her meeting his eyes, and her heart in her throat. It doesn’t escape her how he voicelessly includes her friends in the word ‘family’; it doesn’t slip past how there is a heart-breaking comparison there . . . hers to his. “I know.” She swallows thickly. “They . . . they all really like you.”

Something sparks in his gaze that makes her wonder at the wisdom of being here with him at night alone. “Especially your Nana.”

_Oh God,_ Hermione thinks, remembering that first introduction and the embarrassment of knowing her grand-father read her feelings for Draco accurately without a word between them. “You seem to have a predilection for older women.” Even though he is marrying a young woman two years his junior.

His smirk is one that is so vivid, she has the impression he has somehow cornered her. “Well, that’ shouldn’t be too surprising. My first was an older woman.”

She gapes, her neck and face going up in flames. “Oh.” This isn’t a line of conversation she could expect and is ill-prepared for; but now that the subject is on the table, curiosity gets the best of her. “How did that come about?

Sitting there, listening as he explains how his parents hired a courtesan to teach him how to please a woman (“Couldn’t have me disgracing the family name by putting on a bad show for my future lady”), Hermione is utterly scandalized. He had just turned sixteen, barely of age to give consent. It all happened mere weeks before he was to take the Dark Mark.

“What about you?” His glance is a dart of movement – swinging swiftly to her then away again. “Was it Potter or the Weasel _eeeee_ for you?”

She isn’t ashamed. She isn’t, but it’s still awkward to talk about this with the man she has just realized she is doomed to fall for. “Neither. And may I say I’m just a tad insulted that you would think my best friends were my only options.”

He shrugs before leaning back against the wall, crossing an ankle over a knee. “You don’t strike me as someone who would give herself without a requisite affection.”

She licks her lips again and closes her eyes. “You would be right about that . . . I’m also not the type to steal someone’s boyfriend.” It occurs to her to specify she means Harry and Ginny but decides not to. She has a feeling he’ll just know.

Her assumption that he can read her without much detail is verified when he nods in understanding. “So why not Weasel? You were stuck together in a tent for months, or so I’ve heard. Not enough privacy?”

Turning her head to look at him, Hermione wonders if she should be honest or make something up. She thinks of how many ways he could use this information against her and decides – ultimately – to trust him. “That was part of it.” She remembers vividly the awkwardness of each of the boys – in their own way – making excuses to go into the bushes (never quite far enough) within their warded perimeter to wank. Each of them – _somehow_ – forgetting to cast _silencio, muffliato or some other sound muffling charm_. She couldn’t look them in the eye for hours after hearing their moans, more embarrassed for them than anything else. “The bigger part is that I had no desire to have my first time on the run nor did I want a first time at all. . . . . Stress . . . stress sort of killed whatever sexual drive I had begun to develop when I was nearing sixteen.” He goes still, and she finds herself unable to parse his exact expression. “You’re a virgin?”

“Yes.” She answers matter-of-factly. The way he is looking at her . . . indescribable though it is, has her on edge. “That doesn’t mean I’m some shining conquest,” Cormac McLaggen had made that mistake, “or somehow deficient. I simply haven’t had intercourse yet, just like I haven’t sat for my N.E.W.T.S. nor climbed a mountain nor had a tattoo.”

He stares at her for countless moments in that special way of his and her skin comes alive with a charged sort of energy not unlike static electricity. Eventually he sighs and allows his body to fall toward her and kick his feet onto the cushions, hands coming behind his head. “I don’t know how it is for girls but – I have to admit – you’re probably not missing much.”

Hermione finds that funny for some reason, laughing easily now the tension is – once again - broken. “I’m not worried about it. When it’s the right time, the right person, I doubt much will stop me from taking what I want.”

He tilts his chin back, bemused even watching her upside down. “I can see that.”

“Besides, it’s strange to hear something like that from you.” His reputation at Hogwarts was something bordering on infamy.

His arch look has her blood fizzing warmly through her. “My reputation is well-deserved, I assure you. What I meant was, everyone’s first time is disastrous in some way and shouldn’t be taken as a shining example of every sex you’ll experience.” A pause. “You’re right to wait for the right person. I can’t say I was always respectful of my partners’ needs, and now I regret that I took so much when they gave so freely.”

She’s not sure what to say to that, so she blatantly changes the subject by asking, “I’ve been meaning to ask: Have you set a date for your wedding?”

Unnerved by his stare, she squirms around a bit, nervously tucking her dress skirt under her knees as he sighs and tells her that they haven’t yet agreed on a date though it will most likely be scheduled for this coming April.

Hermione’s heart fissures, the pain muted by a visceral numbing. “Spring weddings are lovely.”

“Astoria wants to have the thing at the Manor . . . “ He twists so that he can look up at her properly. “If it were your wedding, Granger, what would you do?”

Merlin, if that isn’t a loaded question! She scoots her bottom back until she’s leaning on the wall, her legs and feet straight out in front of her. He’s watching her intently, a studying sort of regard that makes her think he can see to the very heart of her . . . 

But he doesn’t know . . . and she wants to be a good friend to him – he has so few. Even if she has just realized she’s falling in love with him . . . even if she’s breaking her own heart by telling him. “I’ve always fancied eloping to be utterly romantic . . . but I couldn’t do that to my parents. I couldn’t leave them out of that moment.”

He nods. “I feel the same.”

She musters a smile, smoothing her sweaty palms over her dress and thighs. “My parents didn’t have much money when they got married. Their wedding was in the middle of their favorite park . . . on a weekday so they didn’t have to worry about school-aged children running about and early enough that the stay-at-home mums were still abed. Mum wore a sundress from her closet and dad wore a white button down and slacks. The bouquet was from a nearby grocery – Mum pressed some of the petals and framed them. They’re still up in the main room if you want to see them.” She sighs wistfully, “ I . . . imagine I’d want something simple like that, you know? Small, meaningful . . . nostalgic.”

His smile is uncharacteristically tender and it _hurts_. “A library?”

She nods, waiting for the usual prediction: _Hogwarts library_ (“Because you practically lived there for six years,” Ron and nearly every other person who knew her would say). But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he squints at her then raises one finger and points. “The community library, right? You would want somewhere your Muggle relatives could actually _see_ , and I remember you telling me it was where you discovered your love of books.”

Her jaw drops momentarily then closes as she tries to get her bearings. _How did he_ \-- “Yes, I . . . And m--my dress would be simple – maybe my mother’s?” She’s not sure why she speaks it as a question. “The flowers –“

“I think you should marry in summer,” he says, his voice going low and thoughtful, “ . . . hold a single sunflower, have wild flowers woven through your hair.” His eyes glaze over, his gaze going distant. “You’ll make a beautiful bride, Granger.” 

Hermione stares at him, feeling as if they are in even more dangerous territory than the sex talk and unsure if she wants to escape. She swallows thickly. “You . . . You said Astoria wants to have the wedding at Malfoy Manor. Is that what you want?”

He screws up his face and blows out a sharp breath. “No. I want to be able to invite you and your parents, and I can’t do that if it’s the Manor.”

She blinks, confused. “My mother’s been there before. Have they been banned?”

Silver, cold and beautiful, focuses on her. “I will never ask you to return there, Granger.” He looks so fierce, so protective as if should Bellatrix appear in this room, he would tear her apart with nothing more than the power of his bare hands.

She admits, lightly, that she probably wouldn’t want to ever return there anyway; but she’s happy he is thinking about inviting her. He tells her – at this point – he probably wouldn’t be able to make it through the ceremony without her. Hermione wonders at that – unsure of what he means precisely – as his tone is vague and subdued, almost _depressed_.

They traverse away from the subject of his engagement into another and another, breaking for refreshments of tea and scones then water for her and a finger of fire whiskey for him. 

He takes her on a tour of his house, every room similarly plain, similarly white, and he confesses he hasn’t had time to decorate or even decide what style and color palate he wants. She finds that the only rooms with any personality are the master bedroom - which is done in a gradient of grays with bold splashes of deep greens and blues and trimmed with rich dark walnut, and the home office – three walls painted in a nondescript beige while the longest entertains a crimson that strangely resembles Gryffindor red with heavy real-wood furniture done in a sensual mahogany. The desk chair is upholstered in dragon leather, the saturated verdant of a Welsh Green.

When they circle around to the kitchen, they settle at the dining table, glass and tumbler in hand as Hermione confesses, “I’ve been scared for a long time.”

She can feel Draco watching her, steadfast and silent. _Listening._

Hermione tells him about how she wasn’t afraid of death but of rape – of how she knew the boys were under similar danger but she thought – if they were caught, Voldemort would want Harry dead and Ron . . . Ron would probably meet a similar fate but her . . . she had already been threatened by Dolohov. When they were taken to the manor, Fenrir had made innuendos, and . . . She tells him that somehow being murdered was palatable but the thought of being violated that way . . . she couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

Draco’s jaw works so hard, she can hear his teeth grinding from her seat next to him. “You were right to be afraid.” 

Her stomach churns as she gathers the courage to ask, “Could you . . . show it to me?”

He grabs his arm as if in defense, his face tense and almost pained. “It’s ugly. What it means is uglier.” She remembers with a startling amount of clarity that he had said the exact same thing when she had asked about it at the hamburger shop. 

Calmly, she returns his study. “I would like to see it, please.”

For a heartbeat, she thinks he will deny her, but instead, Draco groans and whispers the counter, leaving her to watch as the shaded black and gray of a yawning, stylized skull and swirling, evil-looking snake appears to sneer at her, as if it knows her origins are Muggle. 

Draco isn’t looking at her, holding himself so still and stiff, she finds herself concerned for his physical well-being. She lays her fingertips over his on the table, tentative and wondering at how few times they’ve actually touched skin-on-skin for the course of their time in school and this most recent friendship. Lightly, her fingers trace his, noting the differences between their hands – comparing the size and shape, length and girth of fingers, the nails and nail beds (his are immaculate while her nails are a bit longer, dirt evident in the slightly off color. 

“May I?” Just as before, she waits until he releases the tension in his muscles, nodding lightly and slumping in his seat. 

She turns her attentions to the mark, dark against the pale of his skin though faded from what it must have been, she thinks. She traces the lines of the skull, the snake. He shivers but doesn’t pull away. 

She remembers the shattered mask in his main room, the way he had told her what it was but not why he had decided to display it; but she thinks she understands, she thinks she understands him. The past haunts them all – their decisions and actions, false beliefs and unending hope. 

Draco doesn’t want to make the same mistakes again, even if it means having a tangible reminder staring back at him every time he enters and exits his chosen home.

Feeling the pinprick of tears, she covers the Mark on his arm with her palm and tells him, “I don’t like that you chose to take this.” Then scoots closer to him, her palm moving up his arm to rest on his chest, “but more than that, I hate what it’s doing to you in here.”

She’s said too much, she knows. She can see the change in his eyes, the darkness there reflected at her, his pain. She’s tried to tell him this so many times in the months of their friendship only to be blocked by him every time; but not today. Today, she’s just figured out she’s falling in love with him and love is never wrong, even if it is doomed to be unrequited. 

“Hermio –”

“I know I haven’t said this in so many words before, but . . . I forgive you Draco.” He gasps, his eyes wet and glistening in the half-light, his hand warm on hers over his heart. “You need to find a way to forgive yourself.”

His mouth opens and closes several times before sound comes out, and just as he is about to respond, there is a wooshing sound that draws them to the main room where green flames dance inside the firebox.

Malfoy’s face is pinched, his eyes still red and puffy from before. “The only full floo connection is to your house; and only a handful of people are allowed to floo call.”

“Draco?” The voice is feminine. So is the face, though Hermione can’t make out many details aside from the basic eyes, nose, mouth, and face shape.

Muttering an expletive, he buries both hands into his hair and glances at her, apologetic. “What do you need Astoria?”

Hermione’s breath catches. Her heart stops.

“I thought I would inform you, my parents have consulted with your mother about the date and venue. If you have no objections, the bonding ceremony shall be held on April 21st at the Manor. Your mother has promised to dig up the worn out rose bushes and replace them with the more elegant ranunculus and tulip.”

“The date isn’t a problem. I thought we had discussed how I do not want the wedding at the Manor.”

Hermione nervously fingers the material of her dress, feeling very much out-of-place when before she felt very at-home. She moves to cross behind him toward the door and her shoes when –

“I someone with you?”

_Bloody_ – She glimpses the time on his phone lying on the coffee table and cringes. It is . . . really, really _late_. Closing her eyes, she prays silently to a God she ceased to believe in during the war that Astoria will not think the worst of her or Draco. 

“Yes. Hermione Granger. She was just about to leave.” He turns his head to her, pinning her where she stands.

There’s a slight shift in the flames, and Hermione can feel a second pair of eyes observing her. “Miss Granger. I’ve heard much about you from Draco. He must value your friendship greatly as you are the first he has invited to his townhouse.”

_The first_? She clears her throat. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Miss Greengrass, and may I extend my congratulations? I couldn’t help but overhear you’ve chosen a date.”

“And a venue.” A pause. “Miss Granger, I’m sure Draco has told you how eager I’ve been to meet with you.”

Something about her tone has Hermione gearing for defense. “Um, yes. Yes, he’s mentioned it.”

Draco is pulling his hands over his face, contorting his features in a fit of agitation.

Astoria tuts, “And yet, you never sent an owl to arrange a face-to-face introduction.”

Draco grimaces and opens his mouth, but Hermione is already there, an arm blocking him from moving, from speaking, from answering for her.

“I mean no disrespect, Miss Greengrass, but your finishing school teachers must have forgotten to teach you that the person _desiring_ an introduction is the person who _requests_ an introduction.”

She knows Draco is holding his breath. Looking over her shoulder at him, Hermione hopes she hasn’t overstepped. 

Astoria takes a moment to speak again, “Yes, well, I was . . . reluctant to contact you directly. I absolutely abhor Muggle London.” Which meant that Astoria was afraid reaching out would _require_ a meeting in Muggle London. 

“And I’m taking an extended break from magical London.”

“Are you? Then the rumors of your fainting spell in front of the Hall of Governors were false?”

Draco grabs the arm in front of him tightly – thankfully it isn’t her wounded one. “Fainting spell?” He’s angry, hissing through his teeth, but it’s not the time to get into this.

Hermione lifts her chin, not that the floating, distorted head of Astoria Greengrass can appreciate it. “Yes, I am taking a break unless my presence there is absolutely necessary. However, I find I should like to meet you in person as well.”

A corner of a translucent-green mouth ticks up. “Lovely. I am willing to compromise if you are, Miss Granger.”

“I am, as I also value Draco’s friendship and want to also befriend his future wife. My family goes rockpooling every year just before the school year begins. Unfortunately, my parents will not be able to do so this year. I would love it if you and Draco could be my companions this time around.”

Astoria seems to be at a loss, starting and stopping in her response until she grudgingly admits she has no idea what “rockpooling” is. With a small giggle, Hermione tells the other woman that explaining would spoil the surprise. She does, however, mention that they will be doing it at a beach – a fairly private one with few attendants.

“Fine. We shall do this ‘rockpooling’ nonsense with you. Please send me an owl with the appropriate details soon.”

“Of course.” Hermione reclaims her arm and backs up a bit, grinning up at a scowling Draco.

“Is that all Astoria?”

“Yes. I’ll just have the invitations drawn up with what we discussed earlier. Good evening Draco, Miss Granger.”

The face and the flames are gone before either she or Draco can say anything more. Hermione’s heart is racing still as she stares unseeing at the darkened fire box. “So . . . That’s Astoria Greengrass.”

Draco groans and turns to her. “I’m sorry about all of that.”

Hermione is shaking her head before he can finish. “No need. She was . . . interesting. I look forward to meeting her in person.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, “But for now, I need to get home.”

She reaches out to take a handful of floo powder only to have Draco’s hand wrap around hers. 

“You fainted?” It’s a quiet, sad thing thrown heavily at her feet. 

Her teeth graze her bottom lip slowly. “It’s late, Draco. Can we save this conversation for another time?”

“Do you promise to actually talk to me about it?”

She winces. “Yes. I promise.”

He sighs, his gray eyes looking into her brown ones. She has the impression that there are many things he wants to say that he won’t. She wonders if the number matches hers.

“Thank you . . . for today, Hermione.”

She smiles into his eyes, stepping into the fire place and holding up a hand filled with floo powder. “Good night, Draco.”

In a moment, in a blink, silver eyes and white walls are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> I'm pretty sure Meggie and Oslo are actors for the yearly Renaissance Festival.
> 
> But seriously, here's the real notes:
> 
> 1\. Yes. Hermione's Nana has Alzheimers. No. I am not trying to depict it as a funny thing - both of my grandmothers died from complications with this bastard of a disease; but when you have someone you love forgetting you, you are forced to take the blessing of their PRESENCE and find joy in the madness.
> 
> 2\. Strathallan is a real co-ed boarding school in Scotland.
> 
> Now, why did this chapter take so stinking long? Because I had to rewrite the whole thing, because I lost my flash drive with all of my fics on it (I found it, all is well), because my son turned 8 and apparently this is a magical time in a boy's life where they get an extra shot of testosterone that makes them moody little shits who at once want Mommy to hold and coddle them one second then get the fuck out the next, because I am STRESSED THE FUCK OUT that I will get laid off soon due to a downturn in my industry (I have already been laid off once, I don't want to do it again), because I am planning a trip to Ireland, because every freaking time I sit down to write at home or work someone needs something from me, because everyone and their mother had a birthday this month (including my own kid and mother), because my son's teacher sent me a text saying my kid is goofing off in school and now he is GROUNDED from all of the things he loves and he wants my introverted ass to entertain him (I love my son, I really really do and even though I'm an introverted bitch, I still TRY), and because my kid decided to increase his participation in martial arts class from three days a week to FIVE so yeah. 
> 
> Oh and this chapter is like TWICE the length of the others. (Seriously, it's 31 pages in Word).


	9. Interlude III:  Les Entrees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione talks to Oslo; Harry and Ron talk to Hermione; Helen is worried about the kids; and Draco goes to Azkaban.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I did manage to finish the chapter in time! Luckily the rewritten parts didn't need too many rewrites. It was the new scenes that took up a lot of time. 
> 
> Triggers: mentions of torture, mentions of PTSD/anxiety/depression, verbal abuse, blatant prejudice and mentions of xenocide

August 20, 2000

“Magic is real.” Hermione grimaces from her seat directly across from her aunt. This isn’t how she wanted to broach the subject of Iris’s abilities. 

Aunt Oslo laughs. “Goodness, I was worried for a moment, you looked so serious!” She takes up a biscuit, bites, and then dips the remainder in her coffee. “Honestly, good joke, dear. Now what did you really want to talk to me about?”

Rubbing her forehead, Hermione feels a headache coming on and it’s only eight in the morning. “That _is_ what I wanted to talk to you about. Magic is real. So are witches and wizards.”

Grinning, Oslo pops her coffee soaked biscuit in her mouth then crosses her arms over her chest, sitting back. “All right, I’ll play along. Magic, witches, and wizards are real. What does this very irregular prank have to do with me?”

Silently, Hermione wishes she had taken up Headmistress McGonagall on her offer to mediate. “At the luncheon yesterday, Iris displayed not only accidental magic but _intentional_ magic. There is absolutely no question, your daughter is a witch.” She exhales. “As am I.”

The laughter that bursts through the dining room is open and full and well-humored. Oslo wipes at her eyes and slaps the table top. “Really, darling! Are you practicing for some community theatre? Is there a camera hidden somewhere?” She is still chuckling as she sips her coffee then adds another spoonful of sugar. “Is this some sort of intervention? I know my Renaissance acting can be obnoxious, but I assure you now, Nee-Nee, I am well versed on what is real and fantasy.”

“Auntie . . . “ Hermione licks her lips, straightens her spine. “ _Cressida_ , when have you ever known me to prank anyone for any reason? This is not a joke or farce. It is not a play rehearsal. It is not some stunt for Candid Camera. It is _definitely not_ an intervention, and I assure _you,_ I am _also_ well versed on what is real and fantasy; and I am _telling you_ that I know magic, witches and wizards are real because I have spent six years of my life at a boarding school in Scotland _for_ witches and wizards called Hogwarts.” She stands and quite calmly wandlessly conjures her school uniform.

Oslo’s chuckles die. Her smile falls to a purse. She slowly looks under the table, around the room, stands and waves her hands through the air looking for some sort of unseen apparati. “How did you do that?”

Hermione hands her aunt the school uniform, explaining that there is a hidden world non-magical folk (Muggles) aren’t aware of, that _she and her parents_ weren’t aware of it either until she was eleven and a strange man and woman in even stranger clothes appeared at their door informing them of exactly what Hermione is telling Oslo now.

“I’m not convinced.” Oslo’s tone is all business, her fingers tracing the Hogwarts insignia embroidered on her robes. “But that was quite a nice trick.” She rubs the material of Hermione’s tie between her fingers. “Interesting fabric – almost like silk but lighter despite the thickness. Whomever you paid to make this costume is quite a seamstress.”

Knowing that this will be an uphill battle of wills, Hermione takes out her wand, catches her aunt’s eye and _accio_ s a few wizarding photographs before also casting a freezing charm on Oslo’s coffee. 

Wide-eyed as the framed photos settle before her, Oslo shifts her attention between the moving photographs before turning each frame over and removing the printed image within, her fingertips shaking slightly as they rub along the moving forms of Hermione and her friends. 

She then glances at her coffee cup with suspicion, looks inside the cylinder and places her hands around the ceramic barrel, tests the spoon still inside the previously liquid drink. “What . . . What was that you did just now?” She lifts the cup and carefully turns it upside down. 

Nothing falls out.

“A simple freezing charm. _Glacius.”_ Feeling that her aunt is starting to understand the situation, Hermione walks over to the kitchen counter and fetches today’s Daily Prophet, dropping it on the table before her bewildered god-mother. 

As she looks at the paper - the moving pictures, the headlines, the stories, the sports page and gossip – Oslo runs her fingers along each page edge before she turns it, studies all sides of any leaflets. When she gets to the last page, her hands come up to rub her face, nose becoming red and eye sockets pinked. “If this is a prank, it is at a ridiculous level of intricate.” She levels Hermione with a pale look. “Can you do something about my coffee please?”

Hermione nods silently, points her wand and speaks clearly the incantation. Seconds later, the coffee is once again liquid and steaming. Oslo swallows hard, her entire body trembling as she occupies her hands, holding the cup handle and stirring the spoon.

Unsure and anxious, Hermione takes her seat again, watching her aunt with a heavy kind of dread. What if she reacts negatively? What if she thinks Hermione is a complete nutter and goes to the authorities? What if she rejects Iris? What if she never speaks to Hermione and her parents again?

“That stick . . . ?” Oslo’s is sawing the tip of one fingernail into the pad of a thumb, studying Hermione as if it’s the first time ever seeing her. 

“My wand. Ten and three-quarters long, vinewood, dragon heartstring core.” Her gaze flits up to see her aunt observing her closely. “I . . . I’m lucky. At one point, I lost it and I thought it was forever; but it was returned to me.” She tries a smile, aims it at her aunt as she holds out her wand for closer perusal. “Wands chose the wizard . . . or witch. One day, Iris will have one to aid her in focused spell casting.”

Somewhat dazed-looking, Oslo sips at her re-warmed coffee, staring at the drink cross-eyed for a moment as it rests on her lips before swallowing quickly and setting it down again. “But . . ,” she holds up a portion of Hermione’s uniform skirt. “You didn’t use the wand for this.”

“Some of us are able to use wandless magic. Still others may use wordless magic or a combination of the two.” She offers the wand to a dip of her hand. “It . . . it isn’t something taught in school. It’s something that is learned as an adult magic-user, though some are content to simply use the wand for everything.”

Oslo takes the wand, gingerly holding each end between her fingers. “It’s beautifully wrought, much like its chosen wielder,” her smile is tender and tentative and it warms Hermione to her toes. “Are all of them so decorative?”

“No,” she can’t help but think of Malfoy’s old Hawthorne. “Some are quite plain.”

Hesitating, Oslo hands the wand back. “ . . . and a core? You said –”

“Dragon heartstring. It acts as a sort of magical conduit.”

Wide eyes and rounded lips. “ _Dragon_?” 

Hermione grins. “Yes.”

Oslo’s breath audibly catches before she whispers, “Dragons are _real_ , too?”

Wandlessly and wordlessly, Hermione conjures a picture of Charlie and Norberta (in her pen), handing it to her spellbound (pun not intended) relative. “The man there is Charlie Weasley, Ron’s second oldest brother. He works in Romania on a dragon sanctuary as a dragonlogist.”

Blinking rapidly, Oslo places the picture down near all of the other materials Hermione has given her to peruse. “Ronald . . . your friends, are they all –“

“Wizards and witches, yes.” Hermione sighs. “We all attended Hogwarts together though Luna and Ginny were behind us by a year and two years respectively.”

“And Iris . . . my Iris, she’s a witch too?” Hermione has never heard her aunt sound so afraid before. “How . . . how do you know?”

Hermione tries for a reassuring expression but has a feeling she just looks tired. “During the luncheon yesterday, she was in the kitchen with mum and made the unicorns from the cake take flight. She also transfigured a napkin into a butterfly and changed the color of the cake to orange at my request.”

“Dear God . . . I . . . she changed her doll’s hair! And I thought I was going crazy sometimes with things moving about and other things changing before my eyes.” Her mouth falls into a hard line. “You know she changed my strawberry scented shampoo into marmalade?”

Suppressing a giggle, Hermione grasps her aunt’s hand. “Accidental magic is common in young children with an excess of magical potential.”

“What am I to do, Hermione?” Plaintive, confused, fearful. “What did your parents do?”

Hermione grasps the thin fingers a little harder. “When it was time, they let me go; but you still have years before you have to make a decision, auntie. Hogwarts doesn’t take children under eleven years old, and unlike my parents, you have a group of trained wizards and witches at your fingertips to help teach Iris to control her magic before she even gets her Hogwarts letter.” Determined. “You have me.”

A silence falls over them for long moments that Hermione is reluctant to interrupt but, “Aunt Oslo, I hope you understand that this must be kept between those of us in the know. It is . . . illegal to reveal the reality of magic and magical beings on this side of the barrier.”

“I . . . can’t tell Meggie or John?”

Hermione shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“It’s _illegal?_ Are you telling me the _government_ knows there are . . . witches and wizards and . . . . _dragons?”_

Nodding, Hermione bites her bottom lip, watching Oslo sigh and angle her head down, her intelligent brown eyes intently studying the pictures and _Prophet_ once again in turn.

Oslo smiles though her eyes are still dilated with a subdued panic. “You realize you’re mentioned in this newspaper quite a bit?” Her hands leave Hermione’s and a finger trails through one of the gossip columns, stopping on one word. “Why does it call you a ‘war heroine’ and a . . . ‘muggle-born’?”

Hermione closes her eyes and breathes, counting them by the ticks of the kitchen clock. “Auntie . . . . Magic is miraculous . . . fantastic . . ., really; but all bright things often have a dark side. The wizarding world is no different in this respect.” She scratches absently at the bandage on her left arm. 

Her aunt’s shrewd eyes track the motion and reaches for Hermione’s cursed arm. “Tell me.”

Blinking back tears, Hermione gathers the tattered scraps of her Gryffindor spirit and slowly unwraps her wound. “In the wizarding world, there are some who believe that people like me and Iris – muggle-borns . . . witches or wizards born to non-magical parents - are undeserving of our magic. They want to deny us an education in how to control our ability. They do not want us participating in their culture.” A ragged breath. “Until recently, they justified this opinion with the false theory that muggle-borns have somehow stolen their power from those with magical ancestry.”

She lays her bare arm for her aunt’s examination. “One man in particular – a half-blood, who called himself Voldemort and styled himself as the Dark Lord - amassed a following over a period of many decades by weaponizing this theory in such a way that the goal became not only to exclude muggle-borns but eradicate them and their muggle brethren.”

“ _Oh God . . . “_ Oslo grips Hermione’s hand with all her strength. “But it looks . . . fresh.”

Hermione nods solemnly. “Harry . . . my friend Harry . . . There was a prophecy that he would be the one to defeat Voldemort. Ron and I committed ourselves to helping him when we were just first years – nine years ago, and when the war started in earnest against the dark, we were on the front lines . . . . We were captured at one point, and I was . . . I was tortured with an Unforgivable curse that causes . . . debilitating pain because someone believed I had broken into their bank vault and stolen an item that could weaken Voldemort. When I wouldn’t speak after hours of torment, she used a cursed blade to carve this slur into my arm. It won’t ever heal. It’s as if the cuts were made only moments ago.”

Her aunt is crying, one hand over her mouth and the other gripping her hand. “When did all of this happen, Nee-Nee? How did we not know?”

“About two and a half years now.” Hermione focuses on the table, on their tangled fingers, on the letters spelled out on her skin. “As for how you didn’t know, that was my fault and – in hindsight – a clear abuse of magic.”

“I’ve got time.”

“It’s . . . I didn’t want to get into this today. The magical world can be radiant and fun and –“

“I’ve a right to know now, love. If I’m going to send my baby into this new world, I want to be prepared.” Her gaze is strong, “I need to be able to prepare _her.”_

Hermione heaves a heavy sigh, looks into her aunt’s eyes and begins, “The war officially began when Voldemort successfully assassinated a powerful wizard, Hogwarts’ Headmaster Dumbledore, and took control of the Ministry of Magic. I spent the summer of 1997 reading about escalating violence toward Muggles and Muggle-borns . . . their families. I . . . had made a commitment to stand with Harry. I knew time was running out and that we would have to make a move – go on the offensive. Knowing this and seeing the lengths Voldemort and his Death Eaters would go to . . . it became more and more clear to me that mum and dad could be targeted, and I . . . I did what I had to do to keep them safe.“

Oslo scoots closer, hugging Hermione with one arm while grasping her hand with the other. “What did you do, darling?”

“I made them forget everything – including their identities – and sent them to Australia.”

Shaking and pale, Oslo lets go of Hermione and slumps back in her chair. There is no doubt left in her face. “There was . . . yes, there was a period of time when I barely thought of you three . . . I think John said something about the house looking empty . . . but no one – dear Lord – no one questioned it. It was like you all were just an afterthought, the idea to call or visit would arise then just as quickly go away.”

“Magic is intuitive. A spell can be cast on one person with implications for many others depending on the goal of the caster.”

“So . . . obviously you broke . . . or cancelled? the spell.” She looks vaguely uncomfortable saying that. “We are sitting here, talking. Your parents are back and answering to their given names.” Then realization and fat tears falling down reddening cheeks and heaving breaths. “Oh my God, what would have happened if you had died?”

Hermione just bows her head and covers her face, knowing her aunt has already deduced the answer.

***

When Draco rises the morning after his motorcycle ride with Hermione, after introducing her to his home, he feels unsettled and he’s not certain why. 

He lays in bed, thinking back through the long conversation into Astoria’s interruption, sorting through the mental file of Hermione’s expressions and words, trying to identify what subconscious thing is poking his conscience.

It doesn’t take long for him to surmise the problem is Hermione’s forgiveness.

With a groan, he gets up and goes about his usual routine, mentally making a list of all he needs to accomplish today, figuring a visit to his mother, wondering if it would be productive to go in to the office, noting that he needs to have his assistant send him the coming week’s schedule.

He’s just freshened his teeth and coifed his hair when it occurs to him: had he and Hermione discussed his first session with Dr. Ufuoma, she may not have given him the assurance of her forgiveness. 

He thinks back to the unsettled feeling in his gut when he had approached the little building that more closely resembled a house. 

_He had knocked on the door and waited, eyes restless and hands going damp in his jacket pockets. When no answer was forthcoming, he gave the doorknob a light twist only to find it unlocked. Entering silently –_ like a Death Eater on a household raid _, he thinks in disgust, Draco saw a small room with a door at the right, soft green walls and flower arrangements scattered on small corner tables. There were four comfortable looking chairs and a stack of flimsy looking books emblazoned with large pictures of random people and short numerous phrases, often ending in exclamation points._

_Despite the warm, homey feel to the room, there was no one to talk to, no nurse or attendant to take his name._

_Unsure and edgy, he stepped in then stepped back, paced the length and width of the room before tentatively sitting down, palms dragging up and down his thighs. He sat there in unnatural, insulated silence for what felt like an eternity but was actually just a handful of minutes. The sound of the door whining open jolted through his body as he fairly jumped out of the chair, pulling his wand and planting his feet._

_To her credit, the doctor – tall and lithe with close cropped hair and a wide, rouged mouth – did not react. She stood in the doorway with one hand holding the door open and the other grasping a muggle notepad folded against her wrist, crisp and calm and studying him in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. “No need for your wand, Mr. Malfoy.” She was not smiling but she wasn’t frowning either. He exhaled slowly, disposed of his wand._

_She urged him inside the other room with a tilt of her head, her large, golden earrings jingling softly as she did so. This new room was dimmer with dark blue walls and gray carpet and no flowers. There was a desk covered in papers and books; two bookshelves full of books, pamphlets, and binders; a plush lounge angled from one corner towards the door; and two comfortable looking wingback chairs, one of which she sat on after shaking his hand and introducing herself._

_When he just stood there, watching her like she was an enemy poised to attack, she gestured to the chair facing her with a spoken, “Please. Have a seat and relax.”_

_He let his mind drift as he surveyed the four walls, the medium sized window, blacked out by blinds and drapes, a few Muggle pictures of old men with names and quotes underlined. Maybe this was a bad idea, he thought, a restless ache jittering through the muscles of his legs._

_Dr. Ufuoma seemed completely oblivious to his disquiet, her fingers deliberately taking their time thumbing to a blank page in the notepad then fishing a muggle pen out of her blazer pocket. Her eyes were warm as they raised to look at him. “How do you do today, Mr. Malfoy?”_

_Immediately on his guard, he frowned. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”_

_She wrote something down, and he stamped down the impulse to try to decipher it. “This isn’t a test, Mr. Malfoy. It is perfectly acceptable and correct to say you’re doing badly or you’re feeling well or something else altogether.” She smiled then, her presence felt almost . . . maternal. “Now, let’s try again. How are you today, Mr. Malfoy?”_

After this greeting, Dr. Ufuoma laid out a summary of what to expect. She stated that the first session would be very general, a shallow review of things he wanted to address so that she could get an idea of where he is emotionally and mentally and figure out the best plan of action to meet his goals. 

Unfortunately, the session proceeded along a similar vein of push and pull as their initial greeting, with Draco fighting tooth and nail to keep everything to himself while Dr. Ufuoma calmly, patiently coaxed.

She asked him about his childhood.

 _“It was normal, really. Educated at home under the tutelage of a small army of nannies and house elves._ _Accidental magic from the age of three. Introduced to acceptable pureblood children fairly early.”_

_The doctor wrote, never for long, always with an air of purpose. “And your parents, how did they interact with you?”_

_“I’m not sure what you mean?”_

_“Did they talk to you often? Play with you? Read to you?”_

_“My mother would make short visits to the nursery near daily till I was about three years old. After that, I was allowed to attend breakfast and afternoon tea with her.”_

_His hands itched to rip the pen out of her hand, to destroy the notepad between this palms._

_Her face was a mask of careful detachment. “And your father?”_

_“Lucius wasn’t involved when I was a child. He was . . . more present after I reached a certain age.” It was on the tip of his tongue to mention that they weren’t close and never will be, but he decided not to volunteer too much information._

_She was writing again, her expression neutral and bland even as she said, “Why are you using occlumency, Mr. Malfoy? I assure you I am not a Leglimens.”_

_Somehow, he had subconsciously forgotten that Dr. Ufuoma was a witch; and when she called him out for his use of Occlumency, he had balked, telling her that whether his walls were up or down was none of her business._

_He had gotten up to leave, needlessly angry and – strangely – rattled, to never return again when Dr. Ufuoma chuckled unexpectedly. His anger had spiked, antagonized and raw for no good reason._

_“What the fuck are you laughing at?” He had almost shouted, just to fill the room with something other than this smothering silence; but what stopped him in his tracks was the knowledge that he had pressed his lips together and had every intention to call her a **mudblood**._

Now, he closes his eyes, remembering how he had felt the anger drain out of him, how his body had sagged after staggering back into the chair, how he had bent, head between knees and cut his teeth into his lip. The nausea was swift, the bile bitter fire in his throat.

_Dr. Ufuoma was silent, still and patient. She did not ask him questions nor tap her pen nor make any other sort of noise or nervous gesture. She merely waited for him to rise up again, straight in his chair, visibly ragged and spent._

_His walls were still up, but he admitted thickly, “I almost called you a mudblood.” The defeat and guilt in his voice, lacing into his insides, was a live thing. “I’m so very sorry.”_

_She cocked her head questioningly. “That word has no meaning for me, and – I think it bears pointing out – you did NOT actually say it. What does it mean to you, Mr. Malfoy?”_

_The question brought him up short. He didn’t answer for long moments, his skin felt tight and his walls brittle. Dr. Ufuoma simply sat watchfully, her face exuding that strange maternal distance that at once grated and soothed._

_Finally, he stumbled, “It’s . . . a slur. Against muggle-borns.”_ Like you, _he didn’t say._

_But the doctor was already shaking her head. “I am aware of how the word is used, Mr. Malfoy. I’m interested in why you seem to have such a strong reaction to it.”_

_He flailed, opening and closing his mouth, unable to find or project words. In a fit of pique, he grabbed great fistfuls of his hair and pulled while gritting his teeth. When Dr. Ufuoma offered that he could move about the room if he needed to, he stood and stalked the perimeter, paced behind his chair. His hands and body were tingling with nervous energy. He wished he had a broom to fly, a Snitch to catch. Something to focus on besides **that** word. _

_Dr. Ufuoma spoke in soft tones with long consonants, in particular elongating the ‘m’ and ‘n’ sounds. “Emotion words are preferable; however, I can tell you are in conflict right now. Tell me what you are thinking. What does that word do to you? Why did you feel the need to apologize to me for merely thinking it?”_

_It’s strange, she was asking so much from him but he didn’t actually feel badgered. There was a tacit knowledge here that he could always refuse to talk. While she admitted she was not a Leglimens, she was not using Occlumency. Her eyes were always on him, studying but not invasive. Her look was open, her body language relaxed and . . . – it hit him with all the force of a flipendo – non-judging._

_“Malfoys don’t generally talk about . . . personal things.”_

_She smiled reassuringly. “Many people don’t. Speaking about personal thoughts, feelings, problems, hurts . . . leaves us vulnerable to judgement, confrontation, and social reprisals.” Deliberately, she set down her pen and placed her hands on her knees. “If you want to stop here, we can, Mr. Malfoy. I just want to assure you that this is a safe place. Everything you say in this room is confidential, and I won’t judge or argue.”_

_He breathed, runs his hands through his hair, fiddled with his wand in its holster. “That word . . ._ Mudblood _.” He spit it out like rubbish. “It . . .,” struggling, he tried to sit down, his entire body sweating and aching like he’d just had a terribly rough sparring session. His walls were cracked, crumbling, damn near pulverized. “Years ago . . . it was Lucius and Voldemort and everything I needed to do to please them.”_

_Dr. Ufuoma remained as she was, hands on knees, the pen stationary and inert as the notepad on her lap. He swallowed. “Later . . . Later it was . . . “ He trailed off, gathering the chaos of his thoughts and trying to make sense of them. “Later, it was this . . . it became what I hated most about them, about myself – all the bad decisions I made and all the horrible things I did.” He choked, the words fighting against his need to purge himself._

_“And now?” Dr. Ufuoma was unflappable, sat as she’s been, watching as she’s been. Unnaturally placid._

_“Now,” he rasped, tears shining unchecked on his skin in the dim light. “Now, it’s what stops me from going after what I want.”_

In the present, Draco goes through the motions of choosing a suit, accessories, shoes. He slips out of his pajama bottoms and into an undershirt, his suit trousers, socks – all the while unconsciously avoiding his reflection in the antique tri-fold full-length mirrors directly in front of him.

_At the end of his session, Draco was feeling rung out, body heavy and light headed. Dr. Ufuoma congratulated him on all the hard work he had done and wrote a few things on her notepad. He leaned forward a little to read it but she wasn’t writing in English, French, German, or any other language he was familiar with._

_“I’m going to recommend a little homework for you, Mr. Malfoy. You may or may not complete the assignment if you wish; but I think – if you do decide to make the effort – you will reap a substantial benefit.”_

_He nodded for her to go on. His throat hurt from the sudden release of long held tension from his body._

_She smiled at him, pocketing her pen and closing her notepad. “I want you to reach out to someone you haven’t spoken to since the war. It can be an old friend you’ve fallen out with or someone close to you that you don’t generally have meaningful conversations with. It can be one person or several. Whomever you choose to contact, I want you to make it count. Say things you wouldn’t normally say, apologize if you have to, share your feelings if you can. Just make sure to express yourself honestly.”_

_Thinking of Lucius, he asked her if it can be someone who’s hurt him._

_“If it’s someone who has hurt you, do not use accusatory language. Simply tell them how they have hurt you, what you felt at the time the incident occurred and how you are coping now. Whether you want to go further than that is up to you.” Her gaze turns shrewd, “When someone intentionally hurts us, they have forfeited the pleasure of our company and courtesies.”_

Fully dressed, he makes his way downstairs to make tea and toast. No doubt his mother will have a full breakfast ready and set on the table when he arrives. But there is no rush. He conjures his new turn table and begins playing Frank Sinatra’s _My_ Way while drinking his tea slowly. 

He stands near one of the windows in his kitchen, watching the Muggle world outside and contemplating Hermione’s forgiveness and her assertion that he needs to forgive himself. At once, he recognizes that he has no right to deny forgiveness freely given; but he does have a choice on whether he forgives himself. He simply doesn’t believe he deserves it.

But . . .

He’s tired of being scared and miserable. He’s tired of being afraid that he’ll repeat the same mistakes. He’s tired of being a coward. 

No. There was a reason he decided to take Hermione’s advice and start seeing Dr. Ufuoma. There was a reason he had committed to taking control of his life and making amends for his past behavior; and while those actions are a good start, it isn’t enough.

There is still a great amount of work to be done before he’s worthy of the forgiveness already gifted, before he can forgive himself.

Dr. Ufuoma had given him homework, and – in the past – he had always been an attentive, proficient student. He decides then to be brave, to face the other side of his dark past. It isn’t just about the people he has wronged on the light side of the equation. There are still a handful of his Slytherin housemates he really needs to take the extra steps to reach. He needs to confront the people who have wronged him as well. 

Yes. He had told Hermione he means to be a revolution, and one cannot make change hiding behind work, fear and guilt. 

Soul on fire, Draco wordlessly _accio_ s a parchment and quill, making a list. There are letters he needs to write, people he needs to see, and doors he needs to close for good.

***

“Nee-Nee?” Iris’ voice is small beneath the blanket as they lay together on the sofa watching _Labyrinth_. 

“Yes, love?” Hermione is half asleep, her hand snaked beneath the top of the blanket, twirling and releasing a lock of Iris’ hair. It’s been a complicated day already though it’s only about noon.

“When is mama coming back?” Bright eyes peek out from below the throw. Hermione smiles reassuringly, running a hand through tangled brown curls that are looser and thinner than her own.

“Soon, baby. She and Auntie Helen are just having a nice adult lunch together before you both return to Aunt Meggie’s house.” She kisses the top of the little head, loving the scent of the girl’s baby shampoo. “Since you’ve been such a lovely companion this morning, would you like cake after lunch?”

Her young cousin jumps up and starts jumping on the small measure of cushion between Hermione’s hips and the edge. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” She stops jumping to step – carefully – down to the floor before running into the kitchen, shouting for Nee-Nee to come on, come on, come on. They are both in their pajamas (Iris having arrived in hers and Hermione having changed back into hers at Iris’s insistence once her conversation with Aunt Oslo was finished (for now)) even though it’s midday and Iris is wearing her unicorn leggings beneath her nightgown.

Hermione gets up with a groan, rubbing her tired eyes. Her entire body hurts in that depressive, intrusive way, as if sadness is an acid eating away at her muscle groups. The revelation of Iris’s magic to Aunt Oslo had been draining. Talking about the war and revealing her sins against her parents (and her extended family) had unearthed all of the pain she had tried for months to resolve. 

Sitting down afterwards to tell Iris that she is a witch had further brought conflicting emotions, and now Helen had taken Oslo to lunch to have a Muggle parent to Muggle parent q &a session. 

She shuffles into the kitchen, shivering and teeth lightly chattering in 23 degree warmth. Despite the seeping cold in her bones, Hermione grins at her baby cousin as she makes the tea towel dance in the air while humming some kids’ show tune. Hermione grabs the towel in a bad rendition of the waltz while Iris giggles and hops around her ankles.

Eventually, Hermione starts singing an acapella version of “Once Upon a Dream” ( _Sleeping Beauty_ is Iris’s favorite movie) while holding the squealing little girl and gliding across the floor. 

A clearing throat. A flash, Hermione on the floor with Iris beneath her, wand in hand, the staccato thuds of two bodies hitting the floor one after another in a body bind. Iris clings to her older cousin, shaking and afraid at the empty horror in the usually warm and loving face. 

Hermione blinks to see that look in the little girl’s eyes, the guilt of her seemingly never-ending fear eating at her fragile confidence. That guilt is compounded when she recognizes the two intruding bodies in her kitchen.

Sighing, Hermine whispers an apology and casts _finite incantatem_. Harry rises first with Ron groaning, a hand coming up to cradle his head. 

Kneeling beside them, Hermione again apologizes then smacks both in turn for arriving with no warning. That done, she turns her attention to Iris who is folded in on herself, crying silently and shy of Hermione’s reaching arms.

“I’m so sorry, Iris. I didn’t know it was my friends. I . . . reacted badly and didn’t mean to scare you.” She tries a smile, lowering her arms when the little girl cowers at her approach. “Can you forgive me, darling?”

Iris nods slowly then smiles through tear-bright eyes and runs into Hermione’s body. “Wuv you, Nee-Nee. Don’t be sad.” 

“Love you too, Iris-dear.” She picks the little girl up in her arms and turns to her two best friends. “We were just deciding what to have for lunch. Would you like to join us?”

Harry grins while Ron grimaces over the developing bump on the back of his head. Hermione fetches him an ice pack as Iris announces that she would like to have a pasty. Ron takes up an agreement even when Hermione says they don’t have pasties. Harry settles the “argument” by suggesting leftover sausage rolls.

As they set the table and Hermione starts brewing tea then pouring fruit juice for Iris, Ron asks Hermione if Malfoy made a move. She elbows him in the stomach then smacks the miniscule bump at the back of his head for good measure. “He. Is. Engaged.” She checks to make sure Iris is preoccupied talking to Harry. “And I will be meeting the future Mrs. Malfoy soon. Everything has been arranged.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Why the fuck would you want to do that?”

“Because he’s my _friend_ and a _friend_ should know their **friend’s** significant other.”

Scoffing, he helps her fill four plates with warmed sausage rolls, a bit of freshly cooked mash, and green beans. They distribute the spread and Hermione pours the tea. Harry smiles at Iris then pointedly at Hermione, “Iris tells me she turned the icing on her cake yesterday blue.”

Blithely, Hermione stirs honey into her tea. “She turned it every color of the rainbow actually . . . then made a napkin into a butterfly and exploded a bar of soap when I told her she needed a bath this morning.”

Ron grins around a mouthful of sausage roll. “Good one.”

Iris giggles then subsides when she sees Hermione’s firm look. “You magic too?” 

With a flourish, the two young men summon their wands, waving it at the newest witch of their acquaintance.

Iris claps, excitedly squirming in her seat. “C’n I see!!! C’n I see!!”

Hermione quiets the little girl’s hands, lowly directing her to eat. “Remember: Magic is a secret.”

Pigtails dance as the near-four year old shakes her head. “Surprise for mommy!”

“Later.” Hermione says, pointing to her plate. “Then cake.”

Iris squeals and begins to dig into her lunch with relish and the kind of messy commitment only children can manage (though Ron comes close). 

While the child eats, Harry opens, “So . . . . did Malfoy make a move?”

Hermione drops her fork, aiming a wide-eyed open-mouthed look at her friend. “Et tu Harry?”

Ron slaps a hand against the table, causing the flatware to clatter. “See? We’re all in agreement!”

She growls. “He is _engaged_. This is the last I’m talking about it.”

Harry shovels a mouthful of mash into his mouth before soothing, “Have you thought about what I told you at the party?”

“I really don’t see the point. I’m done thinking about it. I’m done talking about it. Can we just move on to something else.” 

Ron is wiping up the mess he made, “Okay, when were you going to tell us about the book and the Governors’ debacle?”

Hermione shrugs, feeling attacked but without the energy needed to put up a defense. “It is what it is. I didn’t expect winning the war to cure anyone of their prejudice. This just means I’ll have to wait a little longer and work a little harder to really make changes.” She cuts into her sausage roll with a fork and knife (apparently Draco’s ridiculous manners are rubbing off). “This week I’ll be traveling quite a bit. Several parents have expressed interest for second consultations – this one paid so I’ll finally have a pay check; and the book is on schedule to publish . . . release date pending final edits.” She sighs. “And as soon as Hogwarts begins the new term, I’ll have N.E.W.T.S. to study for.”

Harry pauses, a forkful of food suspended an inch from his mouth. “You mean you haven’t been revising for weeks already? That isn’t like you.”

As if sensing the depression suddenly weighing Hermione down, Iris slides out of her booster seat and attempts to climb onto Hermione’s lap until she is picked up and placed there, snuggling into her magical older cousin. “Don’t be sad, Nee-Nee,” she says again.

Hermione tilts her head to rest a cheek against Iris’ crown, sharing her sausage roll with the girl. Ron seems to hoover his mash without touching a utensil. “Know what you need, ‘ermione? Someone who’s good at selling things.”

Harry nods. “You’re brilliant, really,” he tells Hermione, “but you’re a horrible saleswoman.” 

They all think of S.P.E.W. – nearly six years old and still only three members strong. 

“Did you have someone in mind, Ronald?” Hermione asks distractedly as she wipes up Iris’ hands and face after the child decided to grab handfuls of mash and smear it on her cheeks. Divination aside, Hermione knows another bath is in her little cousin’s future.

Harry and Ron share a look that – had she been paying attention – would have made Hermione instantly suspicious. “Well, Malfoy made that vow to help you if you needed it, right?”

“And you see him every week anyway.”

Hermione’s eyes snap to the tall red-head. “Didn’t I just say I was done tal—“

“This isn’t about the . . . er. .” Harry glances at the child in the room, “ _optical fornication_ or . . . anything like that. Malfoy is running a business. A _successful_ business – I mean, have you been reading about his projected profit margins and –“ Ron clears his throat, and Harry shakes his head, gets back on track, “Even when we were in school, he was rather enterprising – at our expense, usually – what with that ridiculous song about Ron and the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges.” 

Ron grimaces.

Harry sighs. “Look, Hermione. We don’t really know this new Malfoy well; but even the evil git version of him was talented at rallying and directing peoples’ attention.” He coaxes, “We think you should talk to him, about how to run this venture of yours efficiently (so that you have more time to study) while maximizing exposure, and to ask for his help in garnering the Governors’ votes.”

Now marginally cleaner, Iris smacks a kiss on Hermione’s lips and hops off of her lap, running upstairs to change her clothes – again. Hermione watches the child go, feeling exhausted just watching such youthful exuberance. She takes up the lunch plates but is stopped by Ron’s freckled hands on hers, his warmth covering her back. “We know you have a hard time asking for help; but if you keep doing what you’re doing, you’re going to drive yourself barking.” His grin is softened by the tender fondness in his eyes. “More than usual, anyway.”

Hermione rolls her eyes and elbows him in the stomach, making her way to the sink. “As you said, he has his own business to attend to.”

“Then talk to George. Hell, I can help some too. My point is you aren’t alone, Hermione. So stop acting like you have to carry the world by yourself. There’s a fucking army of people who are ready to help you . . . even if you can be a real micromanaging nightmare sometimes.”

Her knuckles punch into his solar plexus causing him to slouch and wheeze. “If you’re not going to help with the dishes, get out.”

Harry laughs then immediately swallows it when Hermione levels him with a glare. “I’ll just . . . I’ll just go wait for Iris in the main room, yeah?” 

Quietly, Ron takes up a place next to Hermione and grabs a tea towel as she turns on the hot water. “I’ll never understand why you do this by hand when you are a bloody witch.”

“I’ll never understand why you think saying things like that to me will make a bloody difference. I like cleaning dishes. It’s calming and satisfying.” She smacks him with her wet towel. “Now stop being a lazy sod and dry.”

They work together silently for a few minutes before, “So . . . did Malfoy make a move or not?”

Hermione ignores him. “How is Aria doing with the pregnancy? I didn’t get to speak to her as much as I would have liked at the party.”

He ruffles her loose hair with his free hand. “Doing well. She didn’t want to find out the gender yet so the baby’s room is white and yellow. Mum is at the house _all the time_ , and I’m exhausted from all the sex –“

“I don’t want to know, Ronald.”

“Well, long story short, she’s doing well, everything on schedule.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ll be visiting soon. I’ve knitted a few things for the baby.”

“Of course you have.” He sighs. “Listen, Hermione, try not to overwork yourself, yeah? Live a little.”

She pauses to stare at him, contemplating.

He blinks down at her when he realizes there is no washed dish waiting for him. “What? Do I have dirt on my face?”

Huffing, Hermione handed him another dish with enough force to splash a little. “He asked me to ride on his motorcycle with him.” Her eyes aim heavenward. “To his new house.”

Ron looks over at her, strangely silent. She had anticipated him yelling, screaming at her for going somewhere with an ex-Death Eater alone. Instead, she watches his complexion go red then fade, the muscles of throat working before he lets out a slow breath and continues wiping dishes dry. “Okay.” He exhales again, heavily. “He treated you right, yeah? Got you home safe? Didn’t take any liberties?”

Hermione doesn’t know whether to laugh in his face or punch him in the arm for implying she can’t take care of herself. She chooses to laugh, to appreciate his protectiveness. “Yes, yes, and no.” She hands him the last dish and dries her hands on a fresh towel, hearing Iris laughing in the other room in accompaniment to Harry’s.

“Well, when he finally removes his head from his arse and breaks that bloody contract, I’m . . . okay with –“

“He’s not going to break the bloody contract, Ronald. He has no reason to.” She pushes him out of the way to start for the main room.

Ron catches her uninjured hand. “Wait. I need to savor this moment.” He’s standing there with the biggest, childish grin she’s ever seen from him and fairly buzzing with happiness.

She narrows her eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The moment I actually know something you don’t know."

Hermione shakes her head and tsks, “You are so ridiculous, sometimes. Honestly.” Whirling about, she doesn’t wait for a reply, stomping into the main room where Harry and Iris are waiting.

***

When Helen and Oslo return, Oslo is pale and worrying her bottom lip and Helen is weary, her eyes drooping with a tiredness that clings to the corners of her mouth. Harry and Ron are in the main room playing cards with Iris and Hermione is waiting in a nearby chair knitting furiously, her smile tight and expression shuttered.

Oslo approaches slowly, taking Hermione’s knitting then grasping her hands, as if to reassure that all is well, that they are still very much family. Pasting on a bright smile for her daughter, Oslo then urges the boys to make room for her, asking to be dealt in.

Helen settles into an armchair, her legs straight and head hanging back over the backrest. The talk went about as well as could be expected. Helen had vague memories of the day they were approached by Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledor about Hermione’s gifts, but one thing she did remember was how – even though she and Richard wanted to be excited, there had also been a healthy amount of cynicism, distrust, and fear.

Oslo wasn’t distrustful of Helen and Hermione, but it had been obvious from the beginning of the conversation that she wasn’t going to accommodate Helen’s hopeful tone. An intellectual woman, even more pragmatic than Hermione, Oslo may have been convinced of magic’s existence from her conversation with Hermione; however, convincing her of the importance of Iris’s magical education after being told of the Second Wizarding War . . . . Well, Helen had known her sister-in-law would be a hard sell, so she had approached the subject with caution and honest truth.

When Oslo realized Helen was opening herself to questions and promising uncensored answers and opinions, she visibly relaxed, the conversation flowing without drama. There were, of course, moments Oslo had fallen silent, lost and unsure. Helen understood just what she was thinking: _I want to know more about this, but how can I ask the questions about something I know almost nothing about?_

It was a quandary Helen knew quite a lot about, and talking it out with her sister-in-law had given Helen something she had been hungry for all these years: someone to commiserate with about the helplessness and isolation of being the parent of a muggle-born.

“All right there, Mrs. Granger?” Harry is bending over her, concerned. 

“Just tired, Harry, dear.” She squints a smile. “Have you boys been having a good time with little Iris?”

Ron laughs a little too loudly. The sound pounds into her head like a hammer. “She’s a pint-sized card shark, she is. I can’t wait to teach her Wizard’s Chess and Exploding Snap. With any luck, she’ll eventually be able to put George in his place.”

Reluctantly rising to her feet, Helen gingerly pats Ron’s shoulder from his seat on the floor. “It’s always lovely to have you boys over, but I think I need a cup of tea. Would anyone else like a cuppa?”

Harry, sweetly offers to fetch the tea for her, but she insists she can do it herself. She’s just tired, is all. When she enters the kitchen, she sees the garage door ajar and peeks in to find her husband in his scrubs, sat down in an old lawn chair soiled and wrapped up in abandoned spiders’ webs, tapping his foot to the scratchy sounds crooning from his new turntable.

Elvis Presley’s _I Can’t Help Falling in Love_.

“What are you doing home so early?” 

Richard doesn’t start or greet her, just holds out a palm which she takes instantly, loving the way her heart thrills just as it has since she was first learning him. He pulls her around to sit on his lap, the old chair whining under their combined weight and shuddering as Helen tries to fold herself in a way that is comfortable to both of them.

“It’s a beautiful day, and I didn’t have any other patients scheduled. Also, I knew you would be tired and need to unpack an impressive amount after speaking to Oslo. I felt being with my wife was more important than work.”

She bends to kiss him tenderly. “This is why I love you so much.”

He chases her mouth, parting her lips with his and dancing his tongue against hers. “I love you too.” He presses a much chaster but no less intimate kiss to her forehead, the side of her neck. “How did _the talk_ go?”

“She had a lot of questions about Australia and after, but also . . . Hogwarts and how we were informed of things – places we are allowed to go.” She buries her face in his neck, smelling the comingled scents of toothpaste and antiseptic on his skin. “I felt it was only right to tell her about all of the _incidents_.”

His hand strokes along her side. “Probably a good thing.” He gives a small chuckle. “It will be strange having another witch in the family.”

Helen snorts. “More secrets.” And then, “At least Iris won’t have to survive dark wizards and a war, among other things. And she’ll have Hermione to guide and watch over her on the other side.”

Noncommittal, Richie trails his fingers over her hip then back up to tangle in the stray hair falling over her nape. “I think Hermione may have a bit of a crush.” Helen leans away from him, meeting his eyes and frowning.

“It’s not Quintus.”

Her husband grins, shaking his head. “Of course not.”

“Ron again?”

“No.”

 _Thank goodness_ , she thinks heavily. The idea of her daughter being in love with a married man and living in a state of heartbreak is not one that Helen desires to entertain. “It’s not Harry or Neville is it?” Like Ronald, her two other close friends are well and truly spoken for. She wants her little girl to be happy. She wants Hermione to find someone she can be happy with if that’s what _she_ wants.

Richie kisses her temple and hums a small laugh. “No, darling.”

Frowning, Helen glares at a point over her husband’s shoulder, reaching, “Did she meet someone recently? She has been making those school interviews. Was there a single father in there somewhere?”

She jumps a little when warm fingers pinch her bum. “Helcat,” Richie’s voice is vaguely warning, “You’re avoiding the only really viable possibility.”

 _Draco_. Helen had known it from the moment he mentioned something . . . since her Mum’s Night Out, since Meggie was introduced to Draco and sent her a suggestive _look_ while Oslo hugged him, since Nana Granger – thoroughly charmed – had patted Draco’s cheek and welcomed him to the family (because Nana had erroneously assumed – repeatedly - that he is Hermione’s boyfriend and no amount of correction could convince the Granger matriarch otherwise).

She collapses into Richie’s body, resting her head on his shoulder, her arms along his flanks and doesn’t really respond. Not in words. There’s a new tension in her already wracked body, a coiling in her torso and a tightness in her jaw. Richie massages the back of her neck with one hand. 

“He finished the bike.” His voice is pitched quiet, no expectation in his tone. He’s just talking to let her hear his voice, to allow her to feel it vibrating against her cheek. “Hard worker, though I wager he works harder now than before the war. Got something to prove, he does – to his world, his parents, himself.” She can feel the edge of his smile pressing against her forehead. “He’s a good boy, Helen. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

Helen clucks her tongue, wiggling a little in his lap to release a little of the heat trapped between them. “I agree . . . and I like Draco, I do; but . . . you saw what happened when he just . . . cut her out. He could break her heart and not even realize.” What she doesn’t say is that she doesn’t think either of them are ready to pursue a romantic relationship.

Draco is entirely too adept at suppressing roughly anything resembling honest emotion (not that she blames him), and she suspects he’s drowning in guilt and a good measure of self-hatred. It’s something she worries about in the twilight hours – who does Draco talk to about the war, about Voldemort staying in his house, about the threats against his family and the choice he must have felt he had to make, about the horrors he must have seen . . . the torture he had to endure at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters and – probably – Lucius. Does he have night terrors? Frequent panic attacks? Agoraphobia?

She knows there was something . . . something about a plaster and concrete snake at the mini-golf, something about a near magical exposure. She knows – like Hermione – he largely avoids the magical world and recently bought a townhouse on the very edge of muggle London – far from his Wiltshire estate.

Meanwhile, Hermione has thrown herself into her work on the muggle born education and integration initiative so deeply and thoroughly, Helen has barely had a chance to check in with her. She’s begun skipping therapy sessions, cancelling outtings with her friends (barring her Tuesday business lunches with Draco), and – though Hermione tries to hide it – taking Dreamless Sleep potion . . . if she sleeps at all. 

Her little girl is burning the candle at both ends, and it’s beginning to catch up with her. Hermione’s energy levels have been nearly non-existent the last few days. The fear she’s falling into a depressive ravine she won’t be able to crawl out of is a constant niggling worry at the back of Helen’s mind.

Richie’s arms enfold her firmly, but she says, “Tighter, please.” He complies, pressing her into him with more force as she buries her face more deeply into his neck. “I’m scared they’ll destroy each other.”

He tuts softly, breathing into her hair. “They attempted that already and it spawned a friendship instead.”

“Bloody hell, you’re right.”

“For what it’s worth, I think he feels the same about her.”

“He’s engaged, Richard.” She tries to remember if she’s told Oslo and Meggie that. Everything from Mum’s Night is fuzzy. She vaguely remembers a g-string clad arse in her face. 

Richie taps her nose with a finger. “Engagements can be broken, love.”

She doesn’t know Draco’s personal feelings on his impending marriage aside from his assertion that he believes it will be ‘tolerable’. “It’s not for us to decide, dear. If Hermione has feelings for him, that’s for her to sort out. If he’s in love with her, he needs to make a decision of whether to act on it. Either way, we shouldn’t insert ourselves into their . . . their . . . “

“Flirtation?” He’s grinning. Insufferable.

Her hand smacks him before she’s even thinking about it. “Stop. I’m being serious here.”

His arms shift around her to simulate a rocking motion. “What are you thinking? Why does the idea of Hermione and Draco scare you?” He was always good at reading her, ever since they were dental students and she would purposefully knock things off her desk just to watch him bend to pick them up.

“If . . . If – What if Draco takes her away? What if she follows him to the wizarding world and never comes back?” She sniffs, works her throat, closes her eyes tightly against the burn there.

Richie’s fingers knead the knotted muscles of her back, sparking pain as well as comfort. “Draco wouldn’t do that.” He sounds so sure, so strong in that statement. “And if he _tried,_ I’m sure Hermione would _fix him._ ” 

Helen imagines it behind her eyelids and chuckles lowly. “I guess you’re already calling him ‘son-in-law’ in your head.”

She feels him nod, a small movement that makes her feel safe and loved . . . and mildly infuriated that he’s so easy-going about this very serious uncertain future business. “Next time he enters a room, watch her face. It’s like the sun coming out from behind clouds.” His chest heaves beneath her as he takes a deep breath and lets it go forcefully. “I think it will come down to a decision of following his mother’s wishes or following his heart.”

Privately, Helen thinks so too, and she isn’t very optimistic Draco will choose in Hermione’s favor. She doesn’t say this out loud. Instead, she says, “I’m not convinced they would be good for each other long term.”

The rumble of Richard’s hum is both soothing and stimulating. “You said something similar about us before we even started dating as I recall.”

She sits up, balancing on his lap with her hands rounding his shoulders. “I said that to _Meggie_.”

His teeth flash as he gropes her bottom. “And Meggie told me.” He chuckles, “Your pessimism didn’t deter me one bit. In fact, it only made me more determined to win you over.”

Smacking his arm, she aims a flat look at him. “You are such a tosser, Richie. I was stupid in love with you from the moment Professor Caldwell introduced you. It was _me_ who won _you_ over.”

“And I’ve no doubts that Hermione and Draco will eventually win each other over as well.”

Richard – she thinks – is entirely over-optimistic. “We didn’t have the amount of baggage between us that they do. We never fought on opposite sides of a war. And I’ve never wanted you dead.”

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “I seem to remember you screaming that you were going to murder me should I ever touch you again once.”

Her scowl has him laughing silently. “I was in fucking labor, you unmitigated arse.”

“Ah,” he says, his voice thick with affection, “you haven’t cussed at me in years.”

“I cussed at you Thursday when you left your grimy overalls on the bathroom floor.”

He’s laughing even as he smacks a kiss on her smiling lips. “Do you feel better, love?”

Fondness springs warm in her chest as her face gentles and her mouth finds his for a deeper taste. Somehow, after all of these years together, it still surprises and touches her that he reads her so well, that he cares so much, and that he is willing to work so hard for her happiness. There’s still a part of her that feels she doesn’t deserve it. “You always know just what I need.”

“I also know you need to stop worrying about the kids.”

“I haven’t been –”

“Yes, you have.” His tone is firm and unyielding. She _has_ been worrying about the kids. She’s been worrying since Hermione came home announcing she and Draco were now tentative friends: worried about her daughter’s healing, worried about the family dynamic, worried about Draco back-sliding into old patterns of twatness, and worried about Hermione getting too attached only to have her heart broken.

“I can’t help but worry. What if they start dating? Narcissa isn’t . . . she doesn’t think of us like Draco does – not yet, possibly not ever. What if –”

“No. Worrying.” They watch two cars pass, and Elizabeth Cromwell walking her dog, waving. “As you said before, it’s up to them.”

She bites her lip, feeling the light breeze cool against her cheek as she rests her head again against her husband, allowing the pain to filter into the space between her ribs.

She thinks of Hermione when she was a little girl . . . when she was four and they woke to find her making pancakes all by herself; her exuberant chattering about Hogwarts’ founders as they took their first trip to Diagon Alley; watching through tears as she waved good-bye from a departing Hogwarts’ Express; the brightness of her eyes as she told them over Christmas dinner of all the wonders she had discovered at school, particularly her first-ever true friends; taking her shopping at Madame Malkins for her first school dance and realizing, as she stepped out the dressing room, that her baby wasn’t a baby anymore; then Hermione older, more careworn than any teenager should ever be – the grief carved into her features, the fear already woven into every movement of her eyes and body, her wand a constant companion.

Now . . . now, her baby-not-a-baby is a woman grown, more than prepared to make her own decisions after being forced into a soldier’s shoes and fighting to survive. And yet, every instinct in Helen tells her to hold her child close, to enfold her and keep her always. 

“Letting go is such a raging _bitch_.” She bites out as Richie grunts in agreement as the sun hangs low and a lawn mower powers up nearby.

***

August 21, 2000

Sitting in a squeaky Ministry issued chair (roughly 100 years old) at an equally rickety Ministry issued table (probably 500 years old) within the stone and mortar confines of the sea and (formerly) dementor-surrounded Azkaban Prison, Draco waits patiently.

He took particular care in his dress today: his hair perfectly coifed to look fashionably ruffled, a custom cut blue chalk stripe suit with a light blue button up and a Gryffindor red silk tie with gold geometric pattern, a similarly colored kerchief peeking from his breast pocket, and his best freshly-shined dragon hide boots completing the look.

His stomach is in knots but his heart is fortified and ready, stalwart. It’s something he’s learned from his time with Hermione: how to be brave. It’s something that he needs to do now: to be worthy of her – in whatever form their relationship might take. He also wants to do this for himself and the man he believes he’s becoming, for Helen and Richard and all of the people he has watched suffer, for all the suffering he has caused by his own hand.

So he sits though he wants to run; he sits straight and tall with his chin up and mouth relaxed as if this is simply a business meeting when all he wants to do is crumple in on himself or hide under the table or cast a disillusionment charm; he sits still with his palms resting, fingers spread on his thighs while his brain and digits and legs are screaming to fidget.

He resists the impulse to rub the sweat coating his palms off on the fabric even as he reinforces his mental walls. 

The visitor’s room he sits in is bare and bright with gangrene colored walls and filled with the stench of rot, mold, stale sea water, and excrement. 

He tries not to think about the last time he was in a room like this, sat on the other side – furthest from the door – his wrists and ankles shackled and chained with magic-cancelling manacles. He suppresses a shiver, closes his eyes and thinks instead of random things like his schedule for the day, wondering what sort of outing Hermione will have in mind for lunch tomorrow, the exact smell of her hair, his next date with Astoria and the ongoing conundrum of how to survive a marriage he doesn’t want, Hermione’s expression – so frozen and stiff and . . . almost _desperate_ – when he told her about his engagement, the addictive warmth of her and the ever present ache that rattles his bones when he’s not near her, his mother and their strained relationship (mending slowly but mending nonetheless), and –

The heavy iron door screeches open and he feels more than hears the hum of several layers of wards surrounding the room. Lucius shuffles into the room, slowly, his knees cracking loudly with ever step. Draco remains sitting – his first act of defiance and blatant disrespect, a statement. 

His sperm donor is shackled – hands and feet – with chains that rattle loudly in the small room. His dress is that of a prisoner: soiled and faded striped robes of gray and white, threadbare and thin. Draco knows all too well how cold it can get in the cells here. He wonders snidely if Lucius has condescended to cuddle with his rat brethren for warmth in the winter.

When Lucius finally looks up to see his visitor, his countenance is gaunt and pale beneath layers of dirt and grime. The teeth that flash behind his sneering lips are grayed and browning. His hair is long, waxy with an overabundance of oil and dirt. The impressive blond beard hanging from his once proud chin is equally unkempt.

An unknown auror pushes him the rest of the way in, forces him into the opposite seat with more effort than strictly necessary. It is only when Lucius is close – just a small table between them – that Draco notices the bruising around the other man’s eyes, the red splits in his dry lips, and the fungus discoloring once immaculate fingernails.

Draco doesn’t greet him, doesn’t say anything at all, just stares as impassively as possible at the man who gave him his name, the man who had hated so strongly he had cast his family and home into a fiery hell they almost hadn’t survived, the man whose title and fortune he had taken in defense of a woman who deserved everything Lucius had tried to take from her.

Something crystallizes inside Draco at the thought, the memories. This isn’t his first visit to his sperm donor. It’s the last.

“Draco.” Lucius’ usual soft-spoken but commanding drawl is replaced by a gravelly hoarseness signifying wrecked vocal chords – whether from disuse or prolonged screaming, Draco doesn’t care to know. “You have finally answered my summons.”

It takes everything in Draco to _not_ roll his eyes at the older man’s lingering arrogance. “Lucius. You are fucking delusional if you think I’m here because you told me to come.”

Ice blue eyes bore into silver. “Of course. I forget myself, _Lord. Malfoy.”_ There is a mocking tone suffused by barely restrained anger. The air fairly snaps with dark energy swirling with Draco’s own more placid magical force.

“Posturing doesn’t become you, Lucius.” Draco settles back a little more comfortably in the most uncomfortable chair in the world, deliberately folding his fingers atop his stomach. “Before I get into the business of why I’m actually here in this hellhole, you should know Miss Granger is well and thriving.” He can’t stop the cutting smirk that pulls his mouth. “I do know how concerned you’ve been.”

Lucius becomes so still, it’s as if he’s been hit with a strong _stupify_ , his face carved with an expression that promises murder. “It was you.” Three words spoken with a frosty edge that travels down Draco’s spine though he holds himself firmly at ease. Three words that are said with a guttural undertone that makes Draco think of a hungry jungle cat. Three words that indicate the answer to a tormenting question long asked and denied resolution.

The Death Eater hadn’t known it was Draco preventing him from harming Hermione. Not until this moment. Draco allows an internal surge of pride and satisfaction. “I’ve done many things, Lucius. Perhaps if you would be more specific, I could confirm whatever assumption you’ve made.”

“ _Blood traitor_.” Lucius hisses, blood-tinged saliva spitting between rotting teeth. “ _You’ve_ been protecting that disgusting mudblood bitch.” He shifts violently in his chair, chains rattling as he thrusts his head and shoulders above the table toward Draco like a restrained bull. “How did you do it? How did you cast the compulsion?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know. Unfortunately for you, I have no intention of revealing my secrets. I do, however, wish to assure you, Lucius, that I will know if you attempt to harm Miss Granger, and repercussions will be swift and unpleasant.”

Narrowed blue eyes fairly _burn_ with hatred so hot, Draco imagines he can feel the flames licking against his skin. “I am your father and you will address me as such, _son_.” He growls, “And let me assure _you_ , I am not the only one who would be pleased to see the bleeding cunt and the Potter boy leave this world permanently.”

Before making this visit, Draco had spoken with Dr. Ufuoma on his mobile, to clarify his motives, goals, limits, and acceptable outcomes. He had soul searched and planned made connections with people he had wronged and not spoken to in years. He had visited Longbottom and had long discussions with Luna Lovegood as well as initiated and directed correspondence to his old Slytherin cohorts, particularly Blaise and Theo. All of this had helped him come to some hard conclusions. One was that he needed to see Lucius.

Another was that he would not be acknowledging this man as his father, and he sure as hell wasn’t fucking submitting to any demands the man put to him.

As for the ongoing threats on Hermione’s life, he had already addressed that concern with his own wards added to the Granger home (a measure, Hermione had approved of) and a secret little bit of blood magic, courtesy of Hermione’s ever-weeping wound, in the absence of the vow he had initially made (a measure Hermione was still ignorant of and would most likely have her shitting kittens when she found out). 

“How very magnanimous of you, _Lucius_ , to give me fair warning. I’ll be sure to take that into consideration when next I see Miss Granger and Mr. Potter.” His smirk becomes more pronounced, as he straightens in his seat, more sure. Confident. A reflection of his settling insides. “I have a little business proposition you might be interested in.”

The more poised and calm Draco became, the more unhinged Lucius seemed to appear. Hands that had once been adorned by the family ring . . . that had held him safe on his first broom . . . that had curved so elegantly on the head of a cane . . . that had directed a wand to kill and torture . . . that had choked random women while he raped them during revels – those hands, now rough and lined with grime and crusty fungus, grip the table between them with extreme pressure, the old wood whining under the tension. “You _dare_ pretend power over _your father_?”

“I dare many things these days, _Lucius_. Which reminds me, I wasn’t sure if the Ministry informed you – government owls are so unreliable, you know; but, in addition to having myself legally named Lord of the Malfoy family and estates and taking the Malfoy seat in the Wizengamot and House of Lords, I have also successfully taken control of Malfoy Holdings, fired the bulk of your old staff, raided every facet and property for dark magic and artifacts – the Department of Mysteries is absolutely _ashamed_ of how much gratitude they owe you and my ancestors, truly – and willingly paid all fines and reparations for the utter illegal insanity you left the financials in.” He taps his chin as an affectation but the pride in his grin is genuine. “I also dare to ask what curses were placed on Bella’s knife?”

“ _You,”_ Lucius grits out, face contorting into a mask of unbridled rage, “are no son of mine!”

Completely (and unexpectedly) unmoved, Draco continues blithely, “Should you provide the information I’m looking for, I’m willing to ensure no further beatings will befall you in addition to weekly privileges such as regular showers and dental cleaning, new robes yearly, a new mattress with anti-flea and bug charms imbued in the stuffing as well as an extra blanket for the winter months, and a serving of meat and vegetables once a day.”

It was more than this maggot mingebag arsemonger pillock deserved. Unfortunately, Draco had exhausted every other avenue to his personal priority project - now that he had finished cleaning up the business and initiated a long over-due new product campaign ( _Like Magic_ cosmetics line is due to make its debut in both wizarding and muggle shops next month) – short of literally digging up the weapon in question (his last resort). He had to make this deal as lucrative as possible. 

Lucius would accept nothing less. Even if he is serious about the disownment.

Which, by the looks of him, Lucius is very serious. He is also leaning back and surveying Draco with a familiar calculating coldness Draco remembers from a multitude of experiences from childhood. “You should know better to be so transparent, _Draco_. What is it? Is the mudblood slag unsatisfied that she escaped the manor with a little souvernir? She should be grateful she still has her undeserving, worthless _life.”_

Draco’s heart tightens in his chest, anger simmering hot and acidic just beneath his breastbone, but his expression remains clear if slightly smug. “If you do not wish to deal, I have other ways of gaining the information. Once I leave out the door, you will not see me again.” It’s not a gamble. He is more than prepared to leave this source behind. Potter and the eldest Weasley brother have already given their blessings should this lead fall through. He simply prefers a path that doesn’t require exhuming a body – even if he can’t quite trust that Lucius will deliver.

The auror near the prison door makes a slight gesture, two fingers held together swept across his thigh. Two more minutes. 

“What has that _thing_ done to you?” Lucius seethes. “What hold has she invoked?”

Honesty isn’t something Slytherins generally deal in, particularly among their own. Draco has become most honest with Hermione – to her and about her and for her. He meets his sperm donor’s burning frost gaze and admits, “She’s done nothing. In fact, she doesn’t even know the lengths I’m willing to go for her.” He smiles, thinking of the contours of her face, the light in her eyes, the feel of her hand in his. “I’m simply falling thoroughly in love with her.”

The reaction that declaration causes (Lucius body thrusting to stand, a flipped table, and a bestial bellow) is at once hurtful and triumphant. Apparently, he had not killed that part of himself that was still a little boy hoping for his father’s love and approval. Not that he is going to succumb. Lucius could go fuck a dementor if he thought for one moment that a tantrum is going to make Draco walk back his feelings – no matter how doomed they are.

“I taught you better than this!!!! You would sully the integrity of our _purest of pure_ blood? For what? Potter’s sloppy seconds, an impure, used up cocksleeve?”

The auror guarding the door shifts slightly but pauses when he sees Draco’s hand, fingers straight and hovering over his knee, a discreet signal to stand down. “Don’t use words you don’t understand, Lucius. You taught me nothing save how to be a hateful murdering bastard.”

Lucius pale, dirty face seems to elongate as his veins stand out in strain, the shackles magically preventing him from crossing the centerline of the room to attack. “MURDER?” He roars. “It wasn’t _murder_ , you vile blood traitor arselicker. It was _extermination_ of the _filthy_ vermin invading our world.” For the first time since entering and seeing Draco was his visitor, Lucius’ mask of superior indifference crumbles to desperation. “Why can’t you see that, my son? Why can’t you admit the Dark Lord was right? That I was right? They are nothing _! Sanctimonia Vincet Semper!!!”_

Knowing he is not going to get anything productive from Lucius as the man begins frothing at the mouth and murmuring about impurity infiltrating the sanctity of his house, naming his victims, pleading for the Dark Lord’s favor and return, Draco nods to the auror at the door. 

As Lucius is dragged toward the corridor that will take him back to his cell, Draco calls for his attention, knowing this is the last he will see the man who gave him life. “You were right about one thing, Lucius.” Cool gray meshes with fragmented blue. “You’re no father of mine.”

The chains rattle as the old man is taken away, face red and eyes bloodshot in a way they weren’t before this meeting. The once-strong and straight shoulders slump and the head bows down again. 

Draco watches as first the shadows consume him then the iron door, banging shut with an ominous and final echo. He stares at the door for long moments before surveying the victimized table and floating it upright. 

That done, Draco allows the knowledge of what just happened, feeling drained and numb and burning and cold at the same time. He swallows against the dryness of his throat, takes one more look at the door Lucius was brought and taken through and murmurs, “Good-bye, Father.”

He leaves Azkaban, not once looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Draco and Hermione take Teddy to the museum; it rains.
> 
> As always, everyone, thank you so much for reading and commenting!!!! No one has guessed the quote from last chapter yet so the ficlet is still on the table. Hint: It is something Draco says to Hermione in particular.


	10. Picnicking at the Museum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione, Draco, and Teddy go to the museum. Touch discussions are had. It rains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's SUNDAY ya'll.
> 
> This chapter is shorter than the last two and I apologize for that but the next chapter is BIG - as in longer and with LOTS happening. See the end notes for more details.
> 
> If you have been to the London Science Museum, please let me know if I have it wrong. There's only so much one can do when looking at maps and photos online.
> 
> The idea for the kids going to the museum were suggested by Karma_cookie, LillsBills, Natasha_Rhiannon, and YourVeryOwnRandomCatLady. THANKYOU ALL SO MUCH!
> 
> Triggers for this chapter: mentions of torture, mentions of ptsd, mentions of suicidal thoughts, prejudice
> 
> If you would like a break from the angst of this story, please check out the little humor ficlet I wrote (Dramione), "It's Raining Tacos".

August 22, 2000

“Honestly, do you own any muggle clothing besides active wear, grease monkey attire, and designer suits?” Hermione says as she dons Edward’s sling. Draco’s watching her, secretly admiring the way the sheer over shirt pulls over the swell of her breasts outlined in a black tank top. Edward is in his arms, the stiff form of his nappied bottom pressing into his visibly tattooed forearm.

As Edward is transferred between them, Draco smooths his hands along his flanks. “What’s wrong with my attire?” He’s wearing the least expensive of his suits, tieless – just a simple medium blue lounge suit with a white oxford and dragon hide loafers. And he can’t forget the powder blue day pack slung onto his back, weighted down with all of the “necessary” baby things. Adjusting one strap, he watches with interest as Hermione’s eyes zero in on the movement. 

“Nothing.” Hermione answers quickly, her fingers deftly adjusting Edward, the sling to make sure the vibrant cloth supports the tot’s back and bum enough for her to confidently leave her hands free. “You look handsome as always.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that she’s been avoiding looking at him (though his hands seem to be free to peruse). It also doesn’t escape him that her cheeks have been dusted pink since he arrived at her house this morning with Edward in tow. He grins but doesn’t say anything. She’s called him handsome before, though the declaration never ceases in pleasing him greatly that she would acknowledge it.

In contrast to his – apparently – completely unacceptable suit, she’s wearing denims, a black tank and a pink tinted silk shirt that is sheer to the point of translucency. The slur carved into her arm is covered with gauze and some white tape he doesn’t think is spell-o-tape. He eyes it with a mixture of guilt, repulsion, and sadness. 

He shakes his head as she turns to start walking to the entrance of the museum they are visiting today – Tuesday. “You’re quite lovely today, yourself, Granger.” He smiles when she scoffs in disbelief. It’s par for the course with her. She seems incapable of accepting compliments regarding her looks. “The correct response is ‘Thank you.’”

She shoots him a mock glare over her shoulder to the tune of his laughter. As she turns back – eyes front, he takes the opportunity to rake his eyes over her form, licking his lips unconsciously as his gaze traces the shape of her hips, her bum, the lines of her legs, and trim little ankles above her small, feminine pink shoes.

There’s something about the curve of her back, arched slightly to better support the added weight at her front that makes him think of how her posture will change should she ever find herself with child. The thought catches at his breath, sparks a deep fire in his gut that feels similar to primal _want._

Edward is turning his head this way and that as they enter the rather drab if official looking building – The Science Museum - trying to take in the people and movement and colors and noise while Hermione approaches a desk beneath a large sign stating ‘Information’, taking up several different parchments . . . or paper? They are quite glossy. He’s not sure what constitutes the bright colors emblazoned on the surface or the way the material shines under the mix of electrical and natural light.

He feels, initially, as he did when they visited the National Gallery and Museum of National History on Tuesdays past. Muggle architecture is varied – sometimes wholly utilitarian, other times grandiose and over stylized. He finds it all . . . underwhelming _when compared to magical architectural concoctions_ – structures that are often older, filled with darker secrets, and more eclectic than their muggle counterparts. 

Discussing his impressions with Dr. Ufuoma, she had pointed out that his experience with muggles, muggle custom and history were still very much in their infancy and horribly isolated. His only regular contact with the muggle world were the Grangers, the lads and ladies of the boxing club, and the staff at Toulous bistro. Even he had to admit, his judgement on muggles outside of his current circle was still . . . indifferent, bordering on disdainful. 

When she had brought this observation to his attention, he had admitted haltingly that . . . compared to wizarding infrastructure, muggles had accomplished quite a bit whereas his world had remained stagnant – the buildings, roads, housing, and manner of living all remaining similar to how things were done hundreds of years ago. It was a strange bittersweet blow to his pride as a pureblood wizard, recognizing out loud that – perhaps – in some ways, wizarding society had . . . atrophied.

Now, he stands beside Hermione, staring down at her bowed head as she points to an unfolded map of the building, asking him what he would like to see first while gentling Edward’s hand from stray curls that have broken free of the messy pony tail seething at the back of her head. 

Not for the first time, he wonders at what she had thought of their world when she first entered it; how she managed to navigate the things she didn’t understand. It occurs to him that – for the first month and half, she didn’t have many friends to ask. She would have had to rely on the professors and prefects to glean information about how to find hidden classrooms, how to manipulate the moving staircases, what customs to follow and when, and explain the social hierarchies.

Suddenly, he thinks that perhaps the accusations from himself and others that she had machinated herself to the position of ‘teacher’s pet’ may have been misjudged. 

_Later,_ he thinks.

He knows of some of her opinions – regarding muggle-borns and half-bloods as well as the rights and treatment of creatures; but what of wizarding customs – courtship and marriage rites and treatment of women, children, and elders? What about the ignorance of Earth history save what pertains to magical development and Earth rites? Did she think wizards and witches primitive and close-minded from experience, the way he had been taught to think of muggles? 

Visiting the National Gallery had been eye-opening in a way that had spoken to his soul. As a child, he been quite interested in sketching. Somewhere, deep in a warded false drawer somewhere in his old bedroom, there is a journal filled with his etchings of flora and fauna he had experienced on manor grounds as well as portraits of his mother, studies of house elf features, and new designs for racing brooms. 

Unfortunately, his father had seen it once and decided Draco had too much free time on his hands. From then on, he had spent his days with Lucius at the company office, shadowing and learning. 

The thing that struck him about muggle art was how strangely fanciful it could be – even when depicting something mundane such as sitting down or tending a child. He had found himself moved at the amount of Christian artwork because while wizards were not particularly followers of any particular religion, they did not live in a vacuum so tightly sealed as to cause ignorance of the Christ story. 

Depictions of the Virgin and the Christ child, specifically tended to draw his interest with the Renaissance era style of flow, romance and visual drama also taking his breath at times. 

In a similar way, he had initially dismissed the Museum of Natural History – not really impressed by the massive exterior (Hogwarts is bigger) nor the cavernous interior. However, his attitude – already being internally monitored to decipher if his indifference was prejudice in disguise – changed entirely upon walking into the entry hall and seeing the fucking gigantic "dinosaur" ( _'Dippy' the Diplodocus, whatever the fuck that is)_ on display there. Things only became more surreal for him as they worked their way through. Hermione had been equal parts amused and horrified at his reactions to discovering dinosaurs for the first time (“Don’t they teach you baby wizards _anything_ about history that doesn’t directly relate to magic?”). 

He had read every information placard, participated in every interactive aspect (once Hermione explained to him how to use the electronic apparatuses), and asked so many questions, Hermione had begged off at one point to find water to drink though wetting her throat periodically did nothing to prevent her becoming hoarse by the end of the day.

The exhibits on human biology and evolution, also, spawned a long conversational debate on how magic may have influenced human mutation, the origin of the first magic imbued humans, whether wizards/witches and muggles developed from the same source or if there was a division somehow and they evolved side by side. Hermione is of the opinion both muggles and wizarding folk evolved from the same source and a mutation allowed the wizarding branch. Draco favored the theory that muggles and wizards originated from different sources, side by side and influencing each other until the Statute of Secrecy. 

Hermione had not been impressed with the segregationist bent of his opinion.

Once they had moved away from that . . . rather incendiary topic of debate, Draco had immersed himself in the geology section of the museum, completely awed by the amount of study and innovation muggles had painstakingly conducted and engineered in order to not only explain geological history and systems but prove their hypotheses and theories.

He had gone to the Bodleian later that week – as well as the community library Hermione still sometimes worked at – to read more about volcanic activity, stone formation and the magma cycle as well as space exploration and the similarities of Venus and Mars to Earth. Some of it he didn’t understand, writing questions on parchment to pick Hermione’s brain later. As a result, he had watched a video of the moon landing from 1969, shocked that such a thing was a possibility even with the muggle inventions of video cameras and television and rockets.

Edward reaches over to pat his arm while repeating a high-pitched, “Day-Koh, Day-Koh, Day-Koh”, bringing him back to himself. Hermione is watching him with a slightly concerned shadow to her expression. “Still with me, Malfoy?”

 _Always,_ he thinks mushily. “Of course, Granger. Just wool gathering,” he says with a reassuring smile. 

She smiles back, asking if he wants to see the space exploration or energy exhibit first, pointing at the map while simultaneously struggling to keep it from Edward’s grabby hands.

Blithely, Draco takes the map from her, deliberately allowing his fingers to linger atop hers, folding it back up as well as he can. “Space exploration.”

She sniffs, her ears and cheeks redder than a Gryffindor scarf. “I knew you’d say that.” 

He grins wolfishly, fingers tingling pleasantly from the burn of willfully playing with fire. “After you, then.”

***

It is only half twelve and already Hermione is exhausted. She is almost certainly exhibiting a few bald spots with the amount of hair Teddy has yanked out of her head accidentally. Blowing a few remaining strands out of her – no doubt – ragged face, she smiles down at the boy as she lays him – squirming and trying to sit up – on the changing table. 

They are in a family loo, Draco shuffling uncomfortably behind her as he magically adjusts the sling to fit his shoulders. Shoulders she could honestly say she is probably over-familiar with after memorizing their breadth and slope, following Draco all over the space and technology exhibits. 

She smiles to herself as she uses one hand to steady the toddler and the other to tighten the safety restraint around his stretching torso. Draco had been little better than a small boy, his face full of discovery and awe, his mouth spouting off a million questions that the informational placards, the “explainers” and herself couldn’t answer. She wondered if he had thought the same of her when they first arrived at Hogwarts, first year: that the excessive wonder shining in her eyes and painted on her mouth was _sweet._

Feeling her cheeks heat up – again, she firmly shoves her thoughts about his sweetness and . . . wickedly strong-looking shoulders to the back of her mind, focusing on the bottom she is currently wiping and the excrement she is trying to sequester to cloth wet wipes before shoving the mess into a wet bag.

“That’s quite a convenient sort of nappy.” He says from just over her shoulder as she lays the bright blue and white striped cloth diaper cover down first then fills it with a prefold. “Where are we off to next?” She can just feel the brush of his chest against her shoulder blade, two of his fingers, a warm brand resting at the small of her back. Holding her breath for a few seconds, she resists closing her eyes and arcing into the touch. _He’s not for you, Hermione. Stop. It._

Clearing her throat, her voice still cracks a little when she answers, “I was thinking we could find some lunch then bring Teddy to The Garden if he’s not too tired.” She deftly rolls the boy – now utterly distracted by Draco making silly faces – to his side to slip the clean diaper under him before snapping it up around Teddy’s hips and dragging his little trousers up his kicking legs. “And while he’s playing there, you can go upstairs to try out the flight simulator.”

As she washes her hands, Hermione pretends she doesn’t notice the boyish excitement on his face as she lowers her gaze to his hands, the articulation of his thumbs, as he reaches out to nimbly unbuckle the tot from the changing station then stares at the spread of his fingers- nearly interlocking at Teddy’s little back, holding him aloft securely even as he struggles to place the boy in the sling.

Even though Hermione’s mind is wondering what it would feel and taste like to trace the beguiling curve of skin between thumb and forefinger, she adjusts the cloth to drape over the point of his shoulder, before helping him lower Teddy into the seat of the sling, checking that the cloth cupped and supported the boy’s back and bum without digging into the meat of his legs. 

When she lifts her eyes and smiles to say, “Now, then, all set,” her heart stops at the heat in his gaze, her lips suddenly feeling parched and burning. With effort, she tries to reclaim her smile, her _composure_ because instead of his thumb and forefinger, she starts wondering about the texture and shape of his lips, the depth of his mouth, the flexibility of his tongue and how those things would mesh with her own.

As they exit the loo, he tugs on one of her curls, softly, carefully pulling back to preserve contact with the strands for as long as possible (or so she imagines). “Are you sure you don’t mind being left alone with Edward while I --?”

“Of course not,” Hermione huffs, patting his – admittedly hard-muscled – arm, “If you remember, I’ve been babysitting Teddy since he was an infant.” She has no doubt Draco remembers. 

His silvery-gray eyes shift even as his body angles perpendicular to her own, forming a barrier as two young men pass entirely too close. Her heart pitter-patters in her chest, realizing his protectiveness. “True, but an extra pair of hands are sometimes welcome when dealing with rambunctious children.”

She smiles fondly up at him even as her hand smooths Teddy’s – currently – long, purple hair. “We’ll be fine, Draco.” She wants, so badly, to thank him for being so concerned and thoughtful (not that she needs him to be) – so unexpected, really; but she knows he would most likely withdraw or deflect if she does. “I think Teddy will appreciate the opportunity to stretch his legs and walk around a bit.”

Understanding the world ‘walk’ in conjunction with his name, Teddy starts squirming, little fists beating at Draco’s chest and neck, his feet scrambling against Draco’s stomach harshly. His ire only grows when Hermione starts questioning his appetite, the little voice opening up to squalling then outright screaming, the little face and mop of hair turning a deep, blood-like red.

Hermione bows her head slightly, grinning to herself, anxious to see how he’ll deal with a tantruming child. At first he tries talking reasonably to Teddy, “We’re going get something to eat now, Edward. Soon, you’ll have something in your tummy and then you can go play with Hermione.” When that doesn’t work, he tries comforting the boy, patting the little head, rubbing the small back, massaging the chubby itty hands. 

Unsuccessful and sweating heavily at the stares he’s beginning to notice around them, Draco takes on a stern tone, threatening to cancel this trip altogether and bring Edward home should he continue the caterwauling. Of course, that makes the child even _more_ upset, his little body twisting as far and as hard as it can against Draco’s and the sling’s stiff material.

Silently, Hermione digs into the day pack to find a pouch of applesauce, unscrewing the seal and handing it to Draco, who is looking rather haggard and over-stressed from his first Teddy-meltdown experience. She’s only thankful the little boy hasn’t yet learned to change his facial features or teeth as he has shown a tendency to bite when frustrated in the past.

Draco shoots her a grateful look before thrusting the spout in Teddy’s wide mouth, squirting a few drops of the contents. Teddy quiets, smacking his lips then opening his mouth for more. Draco hands the pouch to the boy who takes it between his two tiny hands, tear streaks shining on his ruddy face, the red hair paling slowly to a rose pink then deepening to lilac – the color reminding her of another young tot and accidental magic involving a birthday cake.

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” Draco asks, irritated. Hermione merely smiles sweetly and congratulates him on surviving.

With Teddy so out of sorts, Hermione thinks it would be best to get something quick and relatively close rather than search all over the large building for a sit down restaurant. She asks Draco if he’s okay with eating on the go, and he surprises her with the suggestion of picnicking near the Garden. They make quick work of finding the small café near the entrance and choosing their vittles before making their way, downstairs, to the Picnic Terrace and settling down to eat. 

Draco groans in relieved pleasure as Teddy’s weight is released from his shoulder and back, and Hermione pretends the sound doesn’t affect her at all – a rather simple enterprise, really, given that Teddy is less interested in his food than running around the enclosed picnic space. There aren’t many other people currently, so when Draco offers to follow the tot, she assures him that allowing the child a little freedom is just fine. 

As they set up their dining places and Teddy’s too (Hermione knows he’ll settle down to eat once he’s let off some excess energy), Draco marvels at everything he’s learned, unable to fathom the stroke and breadth of muggle scientific discoveries in the arena of space exploration and medicine. In particular, vaccines, the vast array of pharmaceuticals, and genetics seem to have grabbed and held his attention. “To think if Healers could apply the concept of vaccines to something like Dragon Pox! It would be a sensation in the wizarding world.”

Hermione grins as she bites into her ham, cheese, and lettuce wrap. “Yes. It’s actually rather amazing to lay muggles as well.” She beams at him, unbelievably proud of his man who once hated anything associated with muggledom and now went out of his way to experience and learn. “I’ve always thought, despite not being able to wield real magic, Muggles have adapted to create a magic all their own.”

At her words, Draco seems to freeze mid-chew, his own warm Indian spiced chickpea wrap hanging limply in his hand. His eyes seem brighter than usual and his frame sits tall. She tilts her head, questioning, at him even as she keeps an eye on the meandering Teddy. “Are you okay, Draco?”

It occurs to her that he may have taken her words about Muggles creating magic as some sort of slur against . . . wizarding kind. Or maybe he hadn’t come as far as she thought, and he simply didn’t think any mention of Muggles in conjunction with magic should be made. Her muscles coil up in ready tension as he seems to come to himself, his eyes lowering to some indiscernible point, the fingers of his free hand tapping against the tabletop, his entire body seeming to hint at deep contemplation rather than confrontation. 

She relaxes for a breath before she realizes he’s staring at her bandaged arm, the inquisitive slant of his eyes turning to a scowl. “We’re friends, right?”

Feeling strangely empty after eating half of her meal, Hermione nods silently, afraid of where this is going. There is a new openness between them since the night she visited his house for the first time. She doesn’t feel the need to censor herself as she had done before; and it’s strange for Draco to preface anything in such a way. 

It suddenly makes her wonder if she’s the only one feeling this connection, this intimacy of deepening . . . friendship. It’s all she can do to make it through their Tuesdays without giving into the near-constant (foolish and useless and . . . absolutely inexplicable) heart ache . . . even though she fervently misses him in the days between seeing him. 

Still, the subject of Bellatrix’s torture is something she would rather leave buried. Even the prospect of growing closer to him, sharing something so personal and prickly with him - in a way she never expected to - fills her with unadulterated dread.

“Yes. Yes, of course, we are.” It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask how things with Astoria are progressing (and derail the anticipated line of conversation) when he beats her to the punch,

“Does it hurt?”

A bald question, one that she isn’t expecting and reacts to physically, as if he had slapped her. Why is he bringing this up now? Her eyes track Teddy as he begins to circle around back to them, blinking back familiar tears. “Yes. It hurts.” Her voice is full and liquid, rough.

She would expect him to verbally step back. Instead, he is intent, asking further, “How badly?”

No one – besides the healers and Dr. Ufuoma – has asked her that – not even her parents. She, Harry and Ron had an agreement to never speak of what happened during the war if they can help it. She doesn’t want to speak of it now and tells Draco so. 

But instead of letting it go, he shakes his head and tells her, “Humor me.”

Becoming agitated, Hermione glares at him, “How badly do you think it hurts? Your fucking aunt clearly stated she did this to remind me and the world _forever_ that what I am is _nothing_. So as if having to see it every day and resigning myself to never wearing short sleeves again weren’t enough, it burns like fire and bleeds constantly. I have to take blood replenishing potion every week or so. Sometimes I want to just take a knife and cut off my arm just so I don’t have to suffer the pain anymore.”

She furiously wipes at her eyes, glancing around to see if anyone saw or heard. A pristine white handkerchief is thrust under her nose and she blows, eyeing him as she murmurs a quiet thanks. 

“You seem to have adapted well. I wouldn’t know to look at you.” He takes a mouthful of his wrap, still with that thoughtful look to him.

She swallows thickly even as Teddy plops down in her lap, waving his hands about and telling her loudly that he’s hungry. Before she can respond, Malfoy has taken the boy and sat him at his designated place opposite Hermione and next to Malfoy. Teddy begins eating with gusto, leaving the grown-ups to talk. Hermione eats in pointed silence, feeling raw and fragile and _exposed_ in a way that hurts worse than the wound on her arm.

But Draco, apparently, isn’t done. “What remedies have you tried?” His fingers are coated in red sauce and – even through her inner turmoil – the unwanted thought zings through her that she wishes she could lean forward to lick them clean. Something is very wrong with her, she decides. She’s going to be making an appointment with Dr. Ufuoma very, very soon.

“Why are you asking me these questions?”

Blithely, he wipes his fingers with a serviette. “Just curious.” Then, “Don’t friends talk about the bad things as well as the good?”

That brings her up short. “Well . . . yes. I just . . . I don’t like talking about . . . that.”

“Why is that?”

It’s not because of the memory of how it came to be . . . it’s not the trauma of her body being violated so violently with magic. No, it’s – “I don’t see the point of talking about something that can’t be changed. Bellatrix got what she wanted. I will never ever forget what she and others hated me – still hate me - just for existing.”

She goes through the measured motions of folding the remains of her wrap into its tissue packaging, regulating her breath to coincide with the movements of her fingers. And then his hand is on hers, the feel of his skin shivering through her to trail along her spine in a shower of warm tingles. 

“Hermione.” Agog, she looks up at him. “Please, tell me what you’ve tried so far.”

So she tells him of the many potions, poultices, and creams she’s tried to heal the cursed cuts, including dittany – not only from Healer recommendations but her own research. All were ineffectual. “I’ve had some limited success with a muggle OTC analgesic gel. It takes the edge off of the burn but little else.” When he looks confused, she explains what OTC means. His brow creases, and she can see the gears turning in his head; but he seems to let the subject drop.

Which makes her immediately suspicious. What has she missed? She had tried other muggle topical wound creams, but those hadn’t worked either. She couldn’t go to a muggle doctor – too many questions about the origin, implement and meaning of the wound – or otherwise acquire prescription strength medication.

In the end, “Honestly . . . . I – I can deal with the pain. I can live with it. My main concern is infection so I slather antibacterial cream on it every day and use water proof bandages in the bath, but I know . . . it’s not enough.”

Draco’s hand, still on hers, curls fingers around her own. She grasps him too, watching his face as gravely as he watches hers. Teddy slaps his goo-covered hand on top of theirs, breaking the tension and forcing a laugh out of both of them.

A flash of light immediately has her out of her seat, hand reaching into her beaded bag for her wand only to see a museum employee wielding a professional-looking camera. As Hermione shuffles backward, she notes that Draco is also up and reaching into his jacket, covering the move with a perfunctory grasp-and-pull at his lapels. Teddy continues eating (messily) as if nothing is amiss. 

The museum employee (Hermione leers at the nametag stating, “Ariel”) says, “I’m sorry if I surprised you. You have such a lovely family, I couldn’t resist.” She then goes on a spiel about how they use the photos for advert material and would they mind the museum possibly using their image. Please sign here if consenting.

Heart pounding with a mixture of want and disappointment, Hermione is about to correct the misunderstanding when Draco very deliberately steps in front of her, thanking Ariel for the lovely compliment and assuring her they are having a grand, educational time and – of course – they give consent, where do I sign again? 

Still reeling from the emotional exchange not moments earlier, Hermione watches him charm the young girl and sign on a dotted line. Teddy announces that his is “Dun Dun Dunnnnnnn,” and she quickly turns to take care of his messy hands and “How did you get clumps of raisins stuck in your hair?” She consolidates the rubbish, watches the toddler drain his sippy, takes his hand and helps him throw his trash in the bin. 

Draco is still talking to Ariel who is blushing and thanking him profusely (for what, Hermione can only guess). She notes the relaxed way he’s standing, the open body language, how his eyes aren’t shadowed or blank but bright and equally engaged even though he’s talking with a muggle. 

“How far you’ve come, Draco Malfoy.” She whispers, filled with admiration and pride for him. This feeling . . . is gentle and all-encompassing and . . . vaguely familiar for its essence though stronger at its core. Her heart seems to flutter as the realization comes again that -- As if he could hear her, he glances over and smiles, bidding Ariel an abrupt good-bye. 

“What are you smiling about?” He says, taking the day pack from Hermione’s free hand to shoulder it on before grasping Teddy’s other hand. 

_That I’m falling in love with you_. And it’s so different than what she felt for Ron. She remembers how jealous she was, how needy and desperate for his attention, how . . . unhinged, punishing him for dating Lavendar and punishing Lavendar for dating him. Hers had been a selfish love, wanting him all to herself until . . . what? Until he had no choice but to love her back? Until she had strangled the feeling out of him? It hadn’t been a true sort of love, but a desperate reach for something positive and pleasurable to hold onto during the war, knowing what she had planned for her parents. 

Maybe that’s why she had felt so numb after he left, why she had known from the moment he took his first step away from them she couldn’t love him anymore. There had never been any romantic love in the first place, nothing of substance to hold on to or let go. She had been hurt as his friend, angry at his abandonment of Harry, and bereft of anything to look forward to.

“I – I just –” She ghosts her fingertips across her cheeks, feeling the heat there. “I just wondered if Astoria minds that you spend so much time with me and my family.” It’s strange, she thinks, how the understanding of her feelings does not translate to jealousy of his engaged status. She hurts, yes, knowing she can’t act on these emotions, that she will never be able to tell him; but more than she wants him to know, to reciprocate (an impossibility, she still thinks), what she wants is him to live happy. 

He’s suffered enough for a lifetime already.

As they move to bring Teddy to the Garden, lifting him between them occasionally to the song of baby giggles, he tells her of the fidelity clause in his contract with Astoria; how he is incapable of physical infidelity (to attempt anything of the sort would alert Astoria and her family and automatically cause a break in the contract) though his thoughts and emotions are still his own. 

“So . . . you could fall in love with someone else, and then what?” She asks, genuinely curious.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m playing with the idea of breaking the contract anyway; but I still want to make my mother happy . . . and Astoria seems content enough with our arrangement. I don’t want to disappoint anyone.” She hears the silent _else_ at the end and feels strangely chastised.

As they enter the dimly lit colorful space, Hermione takes a moment to think even as she acquires and tussles Teddy into a little orange smock (about two sizes too big). He whines “Off!” until she firmly tells him he must wear it or they will leave. 

When he calms and stops pulling at the clasps, she allows him to roam where he will among the other children, following closely behind. She knows Draco is following as well, her heel sometimes brushing against his shin and her finger nails catching on his sleeve in the crush. A small part of her wants to snipe that he should just run her over. The larger part takes these little intimacies and holds them close to her heart and catalogs every sensation and detail into her memory.

Teddy seems content at the water activities, Hermione lending a hand when needed. She straightens and steps back, observing next to Draco who seems to be observing _her._ “We’re friends, right?” She echoes his earlier question, debating on whether to actually speak her thoughts about his engagement and his reasons for pursuing it. 

His nose wrinkles in distaste for such a short moment, Hermione questions to herself if it ever even occurred. “Yes. Of course, we are.” She smiles at his near copy of her own response.

“I . . . I just find it a bit strange, you know. You are finally free of your – Lucius and . . . Voldemort; and you seem determined to forge your own path from now on. Yet . . .” Here, she pauses, glancing at him to see if he’s getting upset, “you seem bent on casting yourself as the servant to other people’s whims – so far your mother, Astoria, and myself – instead of doing what **you** truly want.” 

He hides his hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead at Teddy who is busy filling pails then emptying them in a water trough. “I know.” He admits, his voice lowered a few octaves as if the words cause pain. “I just keep hoping things will work out on their own.”

She shifts a bit closer, the back of her hand just barely brushing the material of his trousers. “I . . . You . . . I have no right to tell you how you should be or live your life; but I want . . . I want for you to find whatever makes you happy.” Her eyes never stray from the back of Teddy’s head. “The fact is . . . it’s lovely that you want to give this gift of tradition to your mother, and it’s also kind of you to be so concerned about Astoria’s wishes and wellbeing.” Gathering her courage, she pivots slightly to meet his gaze head on. “However, marriage isn’t about your parents. It’s not about fulfilling some promise made by others when you were a baby. It’s not about someone else’s expectations. It’s about two people consenting and committing to work for and love one another and whatever family they may build for the rest of their lives.” 

Her hands – somehow – had become rolled up into fists and her feet had propped up on balls and tiptoes. She relaxes, sinking to her heels as she rubs her face, feeling shy. “Your mother . . . you’re not marrying your mother and neither is Astoria. I just – I don’t know Astoria, but she didn’t seem very concerned with what you wanted when she floo-called the other night and everytime you speak of her, it’s very . . . sterile? I’m not sure if that’s the right word . . . . Just, if . . . when you imagine you and Astoria together five or ten or even twenty-five years from now, are you happy?”

As she speaks, he never looks at her, doesn’t say anything, his eyes flat and unseeing. Eventually, he moves to accompany Teddy to another section of the room and helps him perform whatever activity is there. Hermione drifts through the other adults, her stomach tied in knots with the thought that she must have offended him again and he’ll begin ignoring her the way he did just a month ago. 

And this time it _would_ be her fault – for giving unsolicited life commentary.

She steps toward them to take it all back, to apologize, when she realizes there is nothing to apologize for. She wasn’t condemning his engagement but providing a perspective he may not have considered. Marriage is a serious commitment and even though she wishes there were a stake for her in his, the fact is she doesn’t have one. Even if he weren’t engaged, she’s nearly ninety percent certain he would never consider her as even a dating possibility if only because he clearly wishes to please his mother with his choice of bride.

And Hermione wasn’t trying to tear down Astoria. She doesn’t know Astoria (first impressions notwithstanding), and Draco is more than reticent in speaking of her. The few times he did mention anything about her it was to say things like, “She’s quite lovely,” “She has an affinity for sweet wines,” or “Her etiquette and diction are perfect.” When her name or the engagement comes up in conversation, his demeanor is not that of a man anticipating a meaningful ceremony and joyful life with a new spouse. 

He seems instead a man handed down a prison sentence. And considering Draco actually did spend a small amount of time in Azkaban while awaiting trial, his attitude toward his engagement is worrying.

As his friend, she has every right to speak her opinion on what she sees as a very clear life-sized mistake. He doesn’t have to agree. He also didn’t have to just walk off and ignore her. She didn’t ignore him and run off when his earlier questions about her arm agitated her. Why did she always have to put up with male friends in her life shutting her out the second they didn’t like something she said?

No. Just no. This isn’t the way their friendship is going to operate. _They are fucking adults now_.

Chin up and a fire in her belly, Hermione stomps over to where Draco is helping Teddy at the sound station. He has – apparently – correctly read the justified ire on her face because he straightens immediately and opens his mouth.

She pokes him in the chest, seething (though quietly, no need to make a scene in public), “Now you listen here, Malfoy. I know that was hard to hear but _as your friend_ I want you to be happy. If that means taking a second look at your arranged marriage, so be it. You don’t get to ignore me just because I’ve said something that –“

“I’m not ignoring you.” 

But she doesn’t hear him. “—that you don’t li --- What?” The fire sputters out in the face of his calm declaration. 

One corner of his mouth tick up, the liquid silver of his eyes are like a warm, spring. “You gave me somethings to think about. I _wasn’t_ ignoring you, _Granger_.” He growls her surname in such a way it causes shivers to break out across her skin. Discreetly, she crosses her arms over her chest – to hide the evidence of what just his voice had managed to do. 

“Oh . . . oh, well, I apologize for jumping to conclusions.” Really, she is realizing, she needs to stop measuring his behavior against the familiar rulers of Harry and Ron and even his younger self.

He chuckles, “Don’t apologize, Hermione. It was actually rather . . . nostalgic. In a good way.”

She slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh, understanding exactly what he means. Clearing her throat, she balls her hands at her sides to keep from playing with her hair as she smiles at him and offers to watch Teddy while he goes to the flight simulator on the third floor. 

In a strange gesture she doesn’t know how to interpret, Draco’s hand raises between them and stops, just long enough to be noticed, just outside her cheek. She’s frozen, eyes locked on his and mind working to memorize the heat radiating from his skin; then it’s over, his fingers rushing through his hair as he – almost nervously – stutters a “See you” before walking off.

She lowers herself to peek over Teddy’s shoulder at the bright green lights flashing along with a discordant melody. “What am I doing, Teddy?”

As if sensing her deep disquiet, the little boy turns to his honorary auntie, smacks her face between his hands and lays a big, wet, baby kiss on her mouth. “Wuv Nee-Nee.” 

She laughs and presses a hundred kisses around his face, setting her worries aside for later.

***

Much later, as they walk their way back to Hermione’s house from the bus stop, Draco is still reeling from the high of – at least the muggle – sensation of flight. He had enjoyed himself quiet well today, even though his suit jacket is stained and smelling of spit up (courtesy of Edward). Said toddler is sleeping warm and sound against his chest while seated in the (remarkable) bit of cloth Hermione uses to keep the child nestled close while allowing her hands to be unencumbered. 

His own hand is currently holding a large umbrella aloft over his, Edward’s and Hermione’s heads as a slow pitter of rain falls, most likely the tail end of a rather tumultuous storm if the waterlogged buildings and streets are anything to go by.

He glances down at the top of Hermione’s head, listening to the pleasant hum of her voice as she hums and shuffles her feet to the beat of whatever song it is she’s entertaining in her head. 

He smiles, remembering the spark in her eyes when she had accosted him before they separated. In that moment he had been transported back to third year. It was one of the great secrets of his life how – after the pain of his broke nose and the damage to his pride had healed, he had guiltily felt pride in _her._ No one else would have dared hit him. No one else would have ever verbally dressed him down the way she did.

It’s probably why he’s always been rather fascinated with her. That she doesn’t look at him and see his family legacy, dark magic, political influence or vast wealth. No. Since the beginning she’s only ever looked at him as an individual, judging him on his words and actions; and always giving him the benefit of the doubt. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

“You know, before Hogwarts, I loved rainy days like this – when the world seems washed clean and the sun is just there behind the clouds.” He can hear the smile in her voice, the good memories in the cadence of her words. “I would ask my parents if I could go outside and jump in puddles.” There’s laughter there, infused in her tone, the waver of her voice with certain syllables. “I think it actually started when I was four, after I saw _Singin’ in the Rain_ for the first time.”

He has no idea what ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ is but makes a mental note to find out soon. 

She continues, “Dad would often join me. We would make it a game over who could make the biggest splash and return to the house, dirtiest.” Pausing, she giggles. “I remember there was often a lot of mud involved when dad accompanied me. And – sometimes, even mum would come out and play in the rain.” Finally, she glances up at him and says, “It’s something I want to do with my own children one day.”

He tries to imagine it, and the picture comes to him _too_ clearly of an older Granger, caked in mud, and two little bodies – equally soiled – laughing amid flying (dirty) blonde ringlets on the lawns of the Manor. “How many children do you want, Granger?”

Her charming blush returns full-force, sitting on the apples of her cheeks. “Oh . . . I have so many things I want to do first . . . but, when the time is right, and I find the right person,” here she looks at him askance and he makes the mistake of meeting her gaze, “I was thinking I could manage two or three.”

Draco is lost a moment, drowning in the pure warmth of her presence, her voice, her words, the picture in his mind of that future and the stark awareness that his growing regard for her is _dangerous_ (if for no other reason than the amount of heartbreak he is destined for). “You should do it.” It slips out of him without actual thought, but once it’s there, lying on the ground between them, he urges her again, “Go on.”

She looks at him dumbly for a moment before, “I can’t go out there. People will think I’m a nutter!”

He urges her a third time, pointing out there’s barely anyone around, and a woman playing in the rain isn’t the strangest thing anyone has seen before. “I’ll mind Edward. Now, go on.” 

He watches as she looks out at the shining puddles, the way the reflection of colors seem to flow with the water into drains. Her eyes turn glassy, and his intuition tightens with the guess she is thinking of the many things that could go wrong should she indulge. It’s in the way her eyes jerk around in her skull and her body moves closer to the wall, further under the awning. 

Draco catches her arm – the wounded one (again), as if his hand and that arm are magnets with opposite poles - his hand gingerly closing about her wounded flesh, careful not to apply pressure along the cold, stiff surface of the bandage. He thumbs the edge through the thin material of her blouse, his fingertips caressing the unblemished skin below it. The touch is meant to be reassuring as he promises, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Her jaw works as her eyes redden just a touch. She fingers Edward’s downy brown curls before touching Draco’s chin, the contact a mere whisper, and backing away slowly into the rain after she toes off her shoes. 

Tentative at first, she holds her hands uselessly above her head as if the shield herself away. Soon, she’s stomping about in her bare feet and hooting with laughter. When she is visibly soaked through, her hair coiling around her shoulders like dark ropes, that’s when she begins singing.

At first, he thinks she’s merely speaking to no one, but then her voice builds in volume and it’s disarmingly beautiful. His breath catches as she twirls about – all shimmering skin draped in clinging material, dark hair and a profound and unfamiliar child-like joy - and his heart gallops as she tips her head back with arms akimbo and sings around a large grin.

_I'm laughin' at clouds  
So dark up above  
The sun's in my heart  
And I'm ready for love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the movie nor the song "Singin' in the Rain".
> 
> Also, I cloth diapered my kid. If you're not familiar with that: there are several styles of cloth diaper. I used water proof diaper covers with snap closures with an absorbent hemp prefold (diaper) inside usually. 
> 
> Teddy is two and will be starting to wear big boy pants soon, but right now, he's just not ready (nor is Andromeda) so still in nappies ^_^
> 
> Next chapter: Draco has revealing conversations with a lot of women in his life; then he goes skating with Hermione.
> 
> I am SUPER excited to tell you that chapter 12 will be the rockpooling chapter. It is also the chapter that you've all been waiting for (i.e. the breaking of the engagement!!!!) Just ONE MORE then you get what you want!
> 
> Also, along the lines of getting what you want - remember when I said this fic would not have smut? Yeah. I fucking lied. The mood struck out of the nowhere and it is already written. (Please note: I do not write super explicit smut. I try not to use terminology often found in explicit smut. Not because I'm a prude but because I think fic is proliferated enough with the filthy/kinky/hot stuff. Sometimes, a little vanilla tastes even sweeter when it isn't expected ^_~)
> 
> EDIT: 2/9/2020: ntf wins the ficlet! She correctly guessed the quote, "Live a little." 
> 
> ~~Also, no one has guessed the quote from chapter 8 yet. Here are some more clues!~~
> 
> ~~1\. it's something Draco says to Hermione directly.  
>  2\. Ron says the EXACT SAME THING to Hermione in chapter 9.  
> 3\. It is only 3 words.~~
> 
> Things I have learned from this quote thing: You, my lovely readers, give me WAY TOO MUCH CREDIT. 
> 
> Also, a reviewer asked about my ff.net account. It is here: https://www.fanfiction.net/~guardiankysra
> 
> Just keep in mind, I haven't posted everything I've written on there (or here for that matter).


	11. Skating for Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heat is TURNING UP. Also, Draco has many important discussions with the women in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm late again. I apologize. My anxiety has been ramping up (possibly due to to menopause). I had an extremely bad panic attack late last month (I call it Xanax level bad) after three years of nearly zero. Then last week, I had six panic attacks - four in one night!. My heartrate was all over the place and my usual calming techniques weren't helping much. To make things worse, I take Zantac for my GERD and it's been taken off the shelves. I started taking something else until I could get in to the gastroenterologist but in the meantime my heartburn was hellacious and the meds I was taking weren't doing much good. I finally went to my PCP and I am now - for the first time in my life - willingly on anti-anxiety meds. (This is not due to thinking anti-anxiety meds are bad. I was simply always able to manage with calming/breathing techniques in the past).
> 
> As you can guess, I haven't been in a mood to write of late. Now that I am calmer, I was able to finish this chapter (though, the quality may have decreased due to the meds - I dunno, you tell me).
> 
> Also, I corrected a small detail in chapter 10 thanks to Lioness_Snake. (changed the whale to Dippy the Diplodocus in the Natural History Museum)
> 
> Triggers for this chapter: the usual level of angst, mentions of PTSD/anxiety, mentions of masturbation, overtly sexual thoughts, controlling parents/families

August 23, 2000

When Draco arrives at the Manor for breakfast (a ritual he cannot deny his mother anymore than he can deny that dratted engagement) it is in a white oxford and slacks the color of aubergine. His mother’s expression is just a touch sour at his choice of clothes, but he doesn’t honestly care. His schedule is full today and he would rather endure it in comfort considering the predicted heat of the day. 

“Good morning, dear.” Narcissa doesn’t take her eyes from the prophet laid out before her.

Draco grunts in reply, buttering his toast then shoveling some eggs into his mouth. He’s been thinking about his father and Voldemort and submission. He’s been ruminating on the nature of servitude and what it meant to have a _master_ when all he wants is to be free. He’s been realizing – through sleepless nights – that the Manor had been a prison long before Voldemort inhabited the halls; and that – now having escaped the building, he has created another prison – one much more difficult to break free of. This prison is not comprised of brick and mortar but of ancient expectation and familial obligation tangled about in such a way as to chain him to the Manor foundations.

And he had been the one to incarcerate himself, serving as judge, jury and warden. 

“Love, do you have time this morning? An urgent matter has come to my attention.” Narcissa says, her voice a melodious little tinkle in his ear, echoed by the clink of her spoon stirring the contents of her teacup. 

“I actually have to leave in a few minutes.” He had made an early appointment with Dr. Ufuoma to brain storm on how to proceed in breaking the proverbial chains he had constructed for himself. “What is the ‘urgent matter’?” He cuts his sausage into bite-size pieces and quickly demolishes them. 

Narcissa slips a folded bit of parchment from her dressing gown sleeve. “I received an alarming message from your father a few days ago. I wasn’t certain as to how much of the contents were true or how to approach you about visiting him without my prior knowledge.”

He finished chewing what is in his mouth before pointedly pushing his plate away and meeting her head on. “What exactly did he say?”

She purses her lips, no doubt noting he does not deny visiting Azkaban. “That you offered him creature comforts in exchange for information about my sister’s cursed dagger. That you have . . . affections for the muh – for Miss Granger; and that you have disowned your father.”

Carefully, he places the embroidered, green and white napkin next to his abandoned breakfast plate – the surface only half cleaned. “Allow me to verify: Yes. Yes; and yes. It’s all true.”

His mother stares at him, chin trembling before bowing her head and bringing one hand up to cradle her forehead. “Your father,” her voice is low and breathy as if she is having trouble taking in air, “I admit he made many grave mistakes; but -- “

“Please don’t defend him to me, Mother.” Draco stands perfunctorily, unmoved by Narcissa’s genuine upset. “I no longer regard that monster as my father. He did make many grave mistakes, _unforgivable_ mistakes.” He breathes a heavy sigh, moving to Narcissa’s side and resting a hand on her shoulder. “Let us bury this subject here. I have an appointment in thirty minutes.”

Narcissa’s delicate fingers grasp onto his sleeve, her head coming up to take in his countenance. He has grown so much in so little time, she could barely recognize him as the same boy who had begged and pleaded that they somehow ensure he get on the Slytherin quidditch team, the same boy who had written that “something must be done” about the mudblood filth desecrating the halls of Hogwarts . . . . the same young man who had begged her with his eyes to somehow save him from Voldemort’s attention . . . the same man who had sat trial – looking waifish and drawn – and stated under veritaserum that he knew Voldemort and his family had been wrong in their thoughts and actions all of these centuries. 

“How long . . . How long have you felt . . . for Miss Granger?” She looks vaguely sick, so pale there’s a greenish cast to her skin, her mouth twisted to suggest a sour mouth. 

His heart feels heavy and swollen in his chest, the bulk of it suffocating his lungs. At the same time, he has the impression of a band stretching between them till the thing that connects them is taut with no slack left to give. “Does it matter, Mother?” he says wearily.

She’s still watching him, her eyes like chips of ice and her mouth trembling. “Of course it matters. Do you mean to court her?”

Despite knowing his mother and her usual methods of manipulation, he finds he isn’t certain as to her motive in asking. Is she concerned about a muggle-born becoming a potential daughter-in-law, or is she genuinely curious about her son’s plans? Or is it something else? She has always been rather set on Astoria joining the family. Is she fishing to decide how best to convince him to try even harder for the arrangement she had orchestrated over a decade ago?

When he doesn’t respond, she coaxes, “I want you to have everything you desire, my son; however, this . . . affection of yours does not have to end the engagement between you and Astoria.” She smiles sweetly and it sickens him. “We could repeal the fidelity clause. You could take the Granger girl as a mistre—”

Draco wheels on her, furious. “No. I would never insult Granger or Astoria that way. I will not have that kind of disrespect in my marriage. No mistresses. No cuckholding. That’s why I requested the fidelity clause. I saw what Lucius’ roving eye did to you. I won’t do that to my wife.”

That seems to startle his mother as she backs away, pale fingers trembling at her mouth. “I didn’t know that you knew.”

He frowns. “I don’t know how you didn’t.” 

For the first time in his entire life, Draco recognizes the shame his mother has long buried. “I’m so sorry . . . I’m so . . . You have grown into such a wonderful man . . . so much better than your father.”

The words offer no gratification. Lucius isn’t exactly a benchmark to aspire to. “I just don’t understand why you never said enough is enough and left. You had your own money, your own properties. Why didn’t you leave him?”

She rings her hands, glancing at the breakfast table as if wondering how they have come to this. “Because . . . if I had left, your father would have had full custody and control of you without my influence. It was part of our marriage contract. If I had left, I could have run with you but . . . it would have only been a matter of time before they found us and took you away. You would have never been able to see me again. I would have never been able to see you.” Her face pales further as she begins to cry. “I could live with a philandering husband. I could even live with the Dark Lord and his disgusting minions.” Her voice is trembling so hard, he can barely understand the garbled speech but . . “I could live with you hating me for standing by while they gave you the Dark Mark; but I couldn’t live without my son. I _wouldn’t_.” 

He isn’t moved, and it hurts that he finds it near impossible to trust her. “I don’t know much about parenting, Mother; but I’ve been spending time with your grand-nephew, Edward Lupin. He isn’t my son. I don’t see him every day. But I can confidently say that I love that child, and if anyone lifted a hand or wand to him, there would be no hesitation. I would fuck up or Avada that person before they could harm one hair on that boy’s colorful head regardless of any consequences.” She’s crying hard now, her face red and swollen, her body wracked with sobs. “ _I love you, Mother._ I’m sorry you had to make the decisions you felt you had to make; but Lucius isn’t here now, and he isn’t coming back. It’s time to chart your own course instead of continuing his.”

Draco pointedly removes himself from her grip and steps away, putting a physical distance between them to reflect the emotional distance he’s felt for some time. “And rest easy, Mother. Even if I wanted to court her, Hermione Granger would never lower herself to accept someone like me.”

Her face crumbles – in anger or despair, he doesn’t care to know. 

Moments later he is stepping into the fireplace, green flames overtaking his body.

***

Later, Draco is divested of his shirt and trousers, wearing only close-fitting boxing shorts, socks, trainers, and gloves. His jaw is set and his body wet with perspiration so thick, his eyes are burning with the intrusion of salt. There’s a satisfying burn in his torso that ranges through his limbs and hands as he strikes the heavy bag over and over again, the firm material giving and swaying under his fists in a rhythm that mirrors his accelerated heartbeat.

Every jab, hook and cross begins as a worry or agitation pushed down to his feet. He plants them down firmly on the ground before twisting - releasing – as a burst of energy rises into his hips upward through his back muscles. It explodes as he follows through with the motion to pulverize that worry or agitating thought into the weighty heavy bag.

Today he’s been at it for longer than usual, his breath coming in harsh open-mouthed exhales, body primed and coiled and refusing to admit fatigue. He knows he’s going to be sore after, but can’t find it in him to care. The session with Dr. Ufuoma had been productive and infuriatingly inconclusive in equal measure.

When he had brought up Hermione’s concerns about his engagement, Dr. Ufuoma had pointed out that even couplings based on mutual affection should be subject to individual scrutiny, even in societies where a divorce is easily obtained. Unfortunately, wizarding society is not one of those, particularly when there are contracts, magical bonds and dowries involved.

_He watched her fingertips as they held either end of her pen, felt her eyes bore into him. “Tell me honestly, Mr. Malfoy. Do you agree with the arrangement your parents have made for you? Do you want to marry Miss Greengrass?”_

_“I really don’t see the relevance in the question.” His eyes were pointing toward the ceiling, contemplating a water stain shaped like an Cornish pixie._

_Still, he could perceive her head tilting slightly in interest. “How so?”_

_“Regardless of my opinion or feelings, I am committed to seeing this engagement and marriage through to the end – till death do us part.” A slight ache formed along the carpals and metacarpals of his hands, the joints filled up with the instinct to fidget. He clasped them together over his stomach._

_This time, she crossed her legs, settled more firmly into the chair across from him as he laid across the chaise lounge. She very pointedly placed the notebook on the floor next to her and dropped her pen into her blazer pocket. “You have the ability to break the contract, do you not?”_

_“Under certain circumstances, yes.” His abdomen tightened unpleasantly as his stomach seemed to coil beneath his hands and flesh into a hot knot of stress._

_“Then let’s pretend that one or more of those circumstances are now valid. Let’s say that your mother’s happiness is no longer tied to your arranged nuptials to Miss Greengrass; and let’s assume Miss Greengrass is ambivalent of the whole affair.” She paused and he glanced over at her. “Do you_ still _agree with the arrangement your parents have orchestrated?”_

_One fingernail scratched at the knuckles of his other hand. Deeply. “It’s what purebloods do. It’s how we preserve our bloodlines, magic, and traditions.”_

And so the session continued, with him evading every attempt of hers to coax an honest answer out of him. He’s still unsure about why he was so skittish to simply say, _I was raised to accept that I would marry the person my parents chose for me; but no, I don’t agree with this arrangement, and unequivocally, I do not want to marry Astoria. I want to break the contract, desperately._

His entire body is dripping with sweat, his hair matted to his forehead and neck, occasional droplets gathering to slide down his spine, stimulating. He continues battling the heavy bag, imagining Voldemort’s reptilian face beneath his fists.

Eventually, the doctor had turned the discussion to mirror Hermione’s assertion that he is once again placing himself under the mastership of others. 

_“What do you think of your friend’s comments?”_

_By that time, he was up and pacing, the first two buttons of his shirt undone and his sleeves rolled up. Dr. Ufuoma had seen his Dark Mark more than once in their sessions together. She was never bothered by it; and she encouraged him to be more at ease, at least with people he trusted to accept that he wasn’t the boy who wanted the Mark anymore. “I want to say she’s wrong.”_

_She nodded in acknowledgement, jotting something on her notebook before watching him intently. “We’ll come to the ‘want to’ part of that in a moment. How do you think she’s wrong?”_

_“Servitude is something coerced through threat, violence, or other abuse of power. I am making an informed decision regarding my own life path. That’s not servitude.” His insides had shaken, intuitively knowing what the doctor would counter that argument with. When it came, her tone was measured and soft, gentle. Like she was placating a child._

_“Servitude can also be voluntary.” She gestured pointedly to his tattooed forearm, bare and visible for once. “For a variety of reasons – monetary compensation, altruism, guilt, obligation and familial tradition among others.” He tensed when she continued, “You have said in past sessions that you submitted to Voldemort’s mastership willingly.”_

_The statement and it’s truth crushed his defenses with little effort. “Yes.”_

_Her expression was equally gentle as she crossed her hands over her notebook, leaning forward slightly. It’s a calculated move – one he had seen before – to show that her entire focus was on him. Singlularly disarming. “Why?”_

_The question blindsided him. “I beg your pardon.”_

_“Why did you willingly submit yourself to Voldemort if your personal definition for servitude is negative?”_

His punches become more forceful, more punishing as the memory-visage of Voldemort becomes Lucius. 

How could he explain that taking the Dark Mark was the pride of following in his father’s footsteps? How could he justify the thrill and hubris of being _chosen_? How could he convince her that he hadn’t seen being a Death Eater as submitting any part of himself at all, but _taking_ _control_ of the power and supremacy that had already been his perceived birthright?

How could he admit that his definition of servitude now was completely different from what it had been when he was too blinded by his own selfish neediness to understand the consequences of walking straight into what amounted to the bonds of magical slavery.

Eventually, near the end of the session, he had sat down heavily on the chair across from the doctor, and allowed himself one moment of complete and total honesty, comforted by the knowledge that she wouldn’t tell another soul.

_“I’m . . . My mother was the originator of my engagement. She chose the Greengrass family as my bridal family because they are . . . kinder than most other pureblood dynasties while still holding to the ideals and traditions that Mother most values. At first, Mother began negotiations for Daphne. However, talks fell through due to . . . father’s exposed ties to Voldemort during the first War. After Astoria was born, Mother tried again and succeeded. I’m still unsure of what assurances she had to give in order to convince the Greengrasses that our family ties to dark magic would not affect Astoria’s future. Considering . . . our position during the war, I was . . . unprepared for the continuation of the arrangement, but it can’t be understated: I am now engaged to her due to Mother’s determination and effort.”_

_Dr. Ufuoma merely nodded encouragingly when he paused, apparently waiting to comment. “My fah – Lucius also had plans for me – plans of leadership and politics, business and intrigue . . . and as a follower of the Dark Lord. I’ve spit upon all of that. I’ve made my own decisions where my public and professional future is concerned – some . . . some of those decisions came too late but --” He shook his head, trying to order his thoughts. “Anyway, I don’t really give a fuck about what Lucius thinks of me tearing what he built for me asunder. I care about my mother. I care that she betrayed Voldemort to his disgusting face for me. I care that she’s been hurt by the way I’ve conducted myself since war’s end. I care that . . . this is the one thing that she’s really had to look forward to.”_

_He had thought long and hard about this, just as Hermione had asked him to. He had tried to picture life with Astoria and knew, without any doubt, that they would both be unhappy chained to each other; he could imagine their children – dour little blank-faced children with golden locks and irregular features – growing up too quick, too serious, too . . . insecure. He and Astoria would have run out of things to talk about after an alarmingly short amount of time, their conversations limited to household concerns and progress reports on the children. They would spend their days engaging in their own work (in his case) and entertainments (in hers) only to share dinner as a family with the children then sleep in separate wings. Sex would have ceased after their second child – “the spare” as his mother would say – and only be conducted out of necessity. The contract would prevent extramarital relations. They would both be condemned to a life of celibacy._

_It didn’t escape him that – in that bleak imagined future – the only person who gets what they want is Narcissa._

_When he didn’t expand upon that or the rest of his thought processes, Dr. Ufuoma leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, hands coming up to clasp over her top knee. “Please tell me if I’m overreaching, but it sounds like you are upholding the engagement out of guilt.”_

_Jab._ When she had said it, so concise and profound, he had buried his face in his hands, feeling his eyes warm and sinuses tingle uncomfortably. _Right cross._ He didn’t cry – not really – though his eyes were burning and wet when he finally found the breath to lever upright again. _Left hook, right._ It had felt like a band was tightening around his chest, like his arms were disconnected from his torso and the world was turning on its axis while he remained still. _Uppercut._ The session ended. He hadn’t been able to say anything at all.

Knowing the good doctor, his face had probably said it all.

He drops his arms, paces in front of the swinging heavy bag, shaking out his limbs. He picks up his towel from the floor and negligently passes it over his face, his hair, his shoulders. Stretching his arms, he pulls on the Velcro fastening on his left glove with his teeth then shifts it off of his hand and repeats with the other arm and hand. While he cleans the area and the heavy bag of sweat, he stretches his leg muscles, his hip flexors. 

He’s just stepped away from the mat, concentrated on unwinding his hand wrappings when a familiar voice calls his name. Recognition relieves the heaviness in his chest even as his heart stutters and his mouth curls into a smile.

***

Hermione’s first thought (besides a panicked jumble of _Oh my God_ and _My imagination didn’t do him justice_ and _Stop blushing!)_ unexpectedly facing a half-naked Draco Malfoy is that she hopes her nipples aren’t visible through her thin, open-neck oversized blouse. It is bad enough her breasts feel swollen and over-sensitive from her monthlies. Her second thought is that she needs something to do with her hands besides fingering her collar bone and playing with the loose curls alongside her neck.

Awareness blankets her skin like static electricity, urging the impulse to lose her shirt and press against him skin to skin to see if they would spark. Her eyes trail across his defined chest and strong arms (the Dark Mark visible, emblazoned but faded slightly against the pale of his left forearm), the revelation of the webbing between his solid fingers . . . his swollen knuckles, the grid of his six-pack (she wonders what it would feel like, to run the underside of her fingertips along those hard won muscles and would he be ticklish?) after catching on the ropey scar meandering from the right side of his neck down to the bisection of his pectorals and curling around the bottom left of his rib cage. 

Before she can stop herself, two fingers are tracing the evidence of Harry’s teenage foolhardiness, her fingertips tingling with the contact of thin scar tissue and hot sweat. Somehow, her body becomes even more enflamed, every part of her calling for him while taking note of his own flush, the way his breath upticks and how his torso expands with it. 

As her fingers meet the end of his scar and her hand falls, she rubs the damp pads of her fingers, filing away the texture of his slicked flesh. An apology is on her lips as she raises her eyes to his, the words going near soundless when she registers his closeness and the intense, blazing expression in his eyes.

Feeling breathless and parched, she licks her lips, her heart going from fast trot to full on gallop when she observes him mirroring her. Suddenly, she realizes that maybe she isn’t so alone in this web of attraction; but instead of being a comfort, the charge between them becomes nearly unbearable for the futility of it all.

But she can’t bring herself to move away, entranced by the addictive bouquet of his natural scent, watching his mouth and wanting it so badly her lips sting in unresolved anticipation – a shadow of the emotional backlash of knowing she has no right to his kiss or his touch or anything of that nature really. 

_Back down, Hermione. He’s not yours._ Hesitantly, she forces herself to take two steps back. _He belongs to Astoria._ She ducks her head, and massages the inside of her palms with the same fingertips that invaded his personal space not a minute ago. “I . . . um, I’m so sorry, for the . . . for what Harry did back then. It shouldn’t have –“

“Its fine, Granger. Potter apologized on his own behalf already.” She sees his feet move away, watches his shins, a little hypnotized by the dark hairs contrasting there, as he bends to sitting on a nearby bench. 

Screwing up her courage, she regards him fully as he uses one edge of his towel to mop up the rest of the sweat glistening so attractively across his chest. “Well then, I’m sorry for interrupting your workout, but I’m actually glad I saw you here.”

“I was just finishing up . . . What _are_ you doing here? I thought you mentioned you don’t generally enjoy gymnasiums.” The shadow of arousal is still darkening his eyes as they seem to caress wantonly over the lines of her body. 

She brings up a hand to press into her chest, feeling the furious flutter of her heart. “I was dropping some things off to Baker, my cousin – I think you met him at the party? He works in the offices – in the back.”

He nods, beginning to remove his other glove. She watches the bend of his fingers, the dexterity of those digits as he begins to unravel the wrappings, revealing the breadth of his palm and the span of his fingers. Biting her bottom lip and wishing the flesh under her teeth was his, she continues, “Anyway, I was going to owl you when I got home, but . . .” she gestures around them as if saying, _here we are_ , “Neville and Luna’s wedding is in three days, and Luna believes aquavirius maggots are going to overrun the ceremony if they don’t visit the roller skating rink this afternoon. I’ve been asked to tag along and would appreciate some company, if you’re available.”

Now he’s circled one hand around the opposite wrist, rubbing the joint and flexing the flow of fingers. Her eyes catch on the vascularity of his arms. “What time this afternoon?” 

Blinking, she watches as he begins cleaning his equipment, wiping the outside and inside of his gloves with a soft flannel, unsure why the motions and his attention to every detail surprises her. Growing up, there is no doubt he was a spoiled brat; but she distinctly remembers that he was never careless with his possessions. Many times, after a quidditch match or practice, she would see him sitting near the pitch in his uniform, maintenancing his broom and gear with equal thoroughness.

“Er um, ‘round three o’clock? I’m not much of a skater – roller or otherwise - so I’ll probably be spending more time on the bench than on the rink.” It occurs to her, “Have you ever, Draco?”

His fingers are thrusting and twisting into one glove with controlled force in such a way that has her discreetly crossing her ankles. “I’ve ice skated . . . but this will be my first experience with the rolling variety.”

A great smile breaks out on her face. “Wonderful! Luna will be so thrilled!” And because it’s the right and polite thing to do despite the heaviness in her heart and on her tongue, “And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you invited Astoria as well.”

He starts to pack the duffle at his feet and she realizes he hasn’t really looked at her since that charged once over. “I’ll ask, but I doubt she’ll accept the invitation.” Packed up, he shoulders the bag before standing, stepping too close again as if daring her to touch him a second time. “Can we meet out front at half two or so? I have to shower and then there are a few errands I need to run.”

“Of course,” she’s near certain her expression is just this side of goofy, “this outing will be my treat since it’s Wednesday and I sort of sprung it on you last minute.”

“I also expect something to sweeten the deal.” His smirk is playful but edged with a sensual darkness that has her already melting center growing into a flood. 

Mentally scrambling for an _appropriate_ response, Hermione suddenly remembers, “Well, there’s a chocolate shop near the rink. How does a gelato sound?”

Later, when she is alone in her bed, Hermione knows she will think (guiltily) about his lips forming the word, “Delicious” and dream he was speaking about her.

***

Draco’s hair is still slightly damp from his shower and (short) ice bath by the time he apparates into the gardens of the Greengrass Estate. He’s once again in his casual button up and slacks, his hands balled up at his sides as he takes the familiar walk along the garden path to the front door.

The main house is underwhelming compared to Malfoy Manor; however, what Greengrass House lacks in size, it more than makes up for in style, the floor plan streamlined for easy navigation and the modern décor in fashionable monochrome whites, grays, and blacks with a splash of color in unexpected places.

He’s admitted into the receiving room with little fanfare by Daphne who is only a few months away from her own wedding. She asks after his well-being, whether he’s found their library useful, how thing are progressing with Astoria. He dutifully assures her he is well as is his mother, that – while he has not quite found what he is searching for, several texts have surrendered new leads to follow, and everything is falling into order. They then share a bit of polite chat about her travels and the upcoming bonding between herself and Terrence Higgs.

“I’ve had a letter from Blaise. He was surprised you had reached out.” She gestures weakly around the room. “After everything.”

“He was following _me_ that day . . . my orders.” He picks at invisible lint on his shirt to mask the shaking of his hand, remembering the Room of Requirement, the killing curse, the _fire_. “It was wrong of me to ignore him for so long.”

She watches him carefully in that open way she had done when they were children and she knew he was keeping secrets. “You wrote to Theo too, he said.”

He shrugs, turning away from her briefly to hide the tightness in his jaw. “Neither have written back, so I don’t think it even really matters, does it?”

The shuffling of fabric and the footfalls of her steps alerts him to Daphne’s approach. A hand on his back and her concerned face rounding his side coaxes a small laugh. “Of course it does. Give them a little time, Draco. They waited over two years for you.”

“And I’ve waited even longer,” Astoria’s voice rings out from the entryway staircase as they turn to watch her glide over the stairs like water. Watching her descent, Draco can’t help but compare the small, quiet steps across carpeted marble to the wide, clomping purposeful stride Hermione employs. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit, Draco?”

She holds out her hand in expectation and he bows over it, kissing her knuckles as custom obliges. She smells of rose water and herbs. He exhales as he straightens and regards her. “Yes, I’m sorry for the intrusion, Astoria . . . but do you have a moment? There’s . . . . I need to speak to you privately.”

“This is highly irregular, Draco.” Even scowling, Astoria is objectively gorgeous, all flawless complexion and refined features; but there is no attraction at all. Only an hour ago he had stood before Hermione, primed to drag her into his arms and snog her senseless or carry her into the shower room and fuck her into oblivion (whichever she would find acceptable).

The Gryffindor darling didn’t even have to do anything. She hadn’t been made up. Her clothes had been modest and bulky rather than form fitting. No. He had been aroused by her presence, the look in her eyes mirroring the same, the way her mouth curved into a smile, the sound of pleasure in her voice when she had said she was glad to see him.

Just that, so simple, and he had been painfully wanting – not just in body but . . .

Daphne slips her hand under his elbow, “Did something happen?”

He shakes his head, attention on his intended. “There’s just some things I would like to discuss with you . . . about the bonding ceremony.”

Astoria eyes her sister who nods silently and walks away. Alone, she takes Draco’s hand and leads him into a nearby sitting room done up in cream and rose gild. As she sits upon the middle section of a double chaise in warm cream with gold stitched pillows, he sighs at her posture – ram rod straight with hands folded elegantly on her lap, ankles crossed. 

As if she were in a business meeting speaking to a client.

“Would you like tea while we talk, Draco?” Every time she looks at him, he feels as if she isn’t seeing him. If she takes any pleasure in his company at all, he has failed in identifying it.

“No. Thank you.”

She nods perfunctorily. “Then, please, feel free to tell me what you would like to discuss.” Her words are as wooden as her posture though he can see the cracks in the façade – her thumbnail digging into a knuckle, the punishing angle of her foot against the floor.

Sitting down a few feet from her, he decides to go the un-Slytherin route and just, “How do you feel about this engagement?”

Luminous eyes focus on his face, confused. “What? Draco, whatever do you mean?”

“How do you feel about this engagement? Marrying me?” 

Her head shakes once, as if in disbelief that he has the gall or reason to ask. “I am, of course, honored and humbled to be chosen for your wife as the future Lady Malfoy. This union is a credit to my house, and I will endeavor to live up to your family’s expectations.”

He twists the Malfoy signet ring around his finger. “That’s all very nice and well-rehearsed; however, I asked how do you _feel_. Are you happy about it? Are you scared? Nervous?” He watches her carefully, “Are you angry? Disappointed?”

She stands slowly, arms crossed and hands clasped about elbows. She circles the room once, the heels of her designer shoes clacking along the polished floor. “I . . . can be nothing but happy that my family planned such an auspicious match.” 

Frustration simmers like acid eating away at his patience. “But that doesn’t tell me how you feel about _our marriage_.” He slides shaking fingers through his hair, huffs out a breath. “When you think of being married to me five, ten, fifteen years from now, what do you imagine it will look like?”

Astoria’s bright eyes are piercing as she purses her mouth, standing across from him. “What _exactly_ are you asking me, Draco?”

 _Why the fuck won’t she just **answer?**_ He knows why, of course. She’s being diplomatic to protect her position, to suss him out, to present a perfect picture of pureblood maidenhood. _Slytherin._ “I am not mincing words, Astoria. I want to know if _you_ , as a woman with your own thoughts and feelings independent from your family, actually **want** to marry _me,_ as a man and former Death Eater that you _don’t really know from Adam._ ”

She threw her hair back, a golden wave that shimmered like silk. “Do you want to break the contract?” Then, she shoots him a shrewd look. “No. You want _me_ to break the contract. Why?”

His whole body goes numb while his heartbeat accelerates, pounding in his chest with such force, it is all he can hear. “That’s not what – Why are you so _fucking afraid_ to be honest with me?” 

Her brows drew together as she set her shoulders. “Why won’t you speak plainly?”

Grinding his teeth, Draco pulls at his hair, purely vexed, as he travels a tight circle before collapsing onto the double chaise. He’s bent over his knees and counting his breaths, trying to control the raging despair threatening to crest over his good sense. 

Blowing out a long breath, he raises his gaze back to his fiancée and changes tact, hoping to knock her off balance. “What is your favorite color?”

She blinks. Her shoulders relax. A flutter of hope sparks in his chest, and then, “I’m sure whatever your mother prefers for the wedding décor will be satisfactory.”

He closes his eyes and silently counts to ten to spite the walls rapidly closing in. “Of course. Do you want children?”

Her hands smooth over the front of her dress though her cheeks remain pale, her eyes unbearably beautiful but cold. “Of course, I plan to be a dutiful wife and will provide the prescribed heir with great pride.”

Something in him breaks. _Prescribed heir._ He couldn’t think of a more detached way of saying ‘our child’, as if a baby were merely a thing easily produced and put away, an inconsequential item on a disposable checklist.

Dragging his tongue over the roof of his mouth, he tries and fails to remove the bitter taste there. “Thank you for speaking with me, Astoria.” He can’t look at her, his eyes unseeing as he stands awkwardly and starts toward the door.

“Draco?” 

He stops for the first thread of true emotion stitched into her voice. “I would be willing to also produce a spare, granted a few years between and the usual aid.”

 _A fucking ‘spare’._ Hoarsely, he grates, “And should I want more?”

For long moments, she is silent, and he, too lost in his own torrential feelings to care to check. “Perhaps the number of issue can be negotiated further at a later date.”

“Of course. I suppose we’ll negotiate how many times a week we’ll fuck too.” He doesn’t stop it from passing his lips, doesn’t mask the sneer on his face. It’s not as if she can see it. This whole conversation has told him everything he never wanted to know about his engagement: that he is the only one trying to make something out of this train wreck, that Astoria doesn’t want to know him nor does she want him to know her, and that . . . despite everything – all the changes he has made and all the effort he has put forth, Astoria doesn’t trust him . . . possibly feels disgust for him. 

He can think of no other reason she would regard future children of theirs as _prescribed_ and _a spare._

He hears her scoff, the sound of her heels clacking along the floor toward him. “Don’t be crude, Draco. Marital relations will, naturally, be performed only when necessary.” Then, as if she realizes how utterly sterile and _fucking horrifying_ this must sound to him, “Unless you are in need of further attention. I am determined to be a dutiful wife, after all.”

Feeling suddenly hollow and sad, he speaks quietly, “I see.”

There’s a hesitation then the weight of long fingers tugging on his jacket sleeve. “I’m glad to see you today, Draco; and I’m equally pleased we have settled a few things.” She pauses for a moment, letting go her hold on him. “I’m looking forward to our day with Miss Granger.” He wants to tell her unequivocally ‘No’, that his relationship with Hermione will remain solely his, separate from this balls-up situation his family has – once again – signed him up for. “She sent me a rather detailed letter about the proposed outing.”

“Yes. I’m sure you will enjoy each other’s company.” He’s aware of the monotonous cadence of his words, of the lack of feeling in his hands, the jumbled mess of _nothing_ like static in his head. 

Astoria bids him adieu easily, gliding out of the room and up the stairs as unaffected as when she made the trip down. 

Draco doesn’t wait for Daphne or a house elf to see him out; and he doesn’t turn around when he remembers he was supposed to invite Astoria skating.

***

Hermione waits outside the gymnasium with a shaky leg and roaming eyes, watching the pedestrian traffic for a shock of white-blonde. The weather is perfect, warm and breezy, the smell of approaching rain in the air. Her nails scratch at the covered wound on her other arm. She is unaccountably nervous and excited at the same time, trying not to get lost in juvenile fantasies of holding hands while teaching Draco how to skate.

“Love is a good look on you, Hermione.” Luna’s soft, melodic voice sounds near her shoulder, making Hermione jump slightly. “You should wear it more often.”

Embracing her friend, blinking, Hermione shakes her head. “Where did you come from? I didn’t even see you approaching!” She chooses not to acknowledge the comment on her ‘look’. Sometimes that was the best approach when Luna was being grossly intuitive.

Luna’s wide blue eyes sparkle. “You were searching too high, I think.” She laces thin fingers with multicolored nails, through Hermione’s. “Neville should be here shortly.”

Hermione smiles at her friend, reading the happiness in her voice. “Is all in order for the wedding? Do you need help with anything?” Luna and Neville had opted for a small, private affair on the shores of Watergate Beach in Cornwall, their guest list numbering in the twenties. Luna’s dress is a gorgeous bohemian concoction of the sheerest ivory lace and dripping with fringe at the split hem. The bell sleeves are voluminous and romantic. Hermione can’t wait to see her, hair loose in the sea breeze, barefoot in the sand.

Neville just might faint. Hermione has a mountain of Polaroid film and a new pack of batteries ready and waiting for the big day.

Swinging their hands back and forth, Luna’s eyes bore into her. “Everything is as it should be.” Then, those too blue, focused eyes shift to take in something just beyond Hermione’s shoulder. “Oh! Here he is.”

Expecting Neville, Hermione turns on a heel with her arms out and ready to embrace him. Only it isn’t Neville behind her. 

No, of course not. Instead, she tips precariously forward into the body of Draco Malfoy, her hands quickly finding purchase along his flanks to push (reluctantly) away. “Ah, hello again, Draco.” She dares smile up into his face despite the warmth blooming over her cheeks and feels immediately on guard and concerned. His eyes are like twin stones carved flat. He hasn’t used occlumency around her in what seems like a long time.

He doesn’t smile at her, his mouth as closed as his eyes, but his hands are gentle on her shoulders as they squeeze just a little, steadying her. “Granger. Lovegood,” he drawls as those concealing eyes flit over to Luna. “Always a pleasure.”

Luna grins, her hand reaching out to grasp his without hesitation. “And it is always _inspiring_ to see you, Draco.”

His brows draw low. “Of course, it is.”

Feeling as if she is missing something vital - and _hating_ it, Hermione tells him that Neville seems to be running a tad late, “Do you mind?”

When he looks at her, his eyes soften just a smidge, and she realizes she is being ridiculous. “I’ve made sure the rest of the evening is free. If something comes up, my assistant will call me on the mobile.”

“He has a _name_ , Draco.”

“And I use it when speaking to him.” This time, the corner of his mouth hitches up just so – a mere ghost of his trademark smirk but still _there_.

She wants to ask him what’s wrong, what happened, _are you okay?_ But – she glances at Luna, who is looking entirely too interested in their interactions – it’s not the time nor place.

They make small talk as the world moves around them in cars and on bikes and walking on sidewalks: Draco tells them he will be officially stepping down as CEO from Malfoy Holdings in the coming week as his independent venture – VERUS Apothecary, Inc. has been doing better than expected since launching two weeks ago; Luna congratulates him on the long journey though he still has miles to tread and should it be favorable, she has a little tonic made from firewhiskey soaked oak buds that can take help disperse his current infestation of wrackspurts if positive thought is beyond him for the moment; Hermione cuts in that she’s signed contracts with thirty-two families so far, that she’s reworking her ideas for an updated Muggle Studies course while also playing with the idea of expanding her consultation service to network between muggle parents to provide peer support, something her parents had sorely wanted. 

Luna swings Draco’s hand absently, her blue eyes seeming to glow like bluebell flames, “I’m sure your aunt will be quite appreciative as well.”

Hermione stares at her friend. “How do you _do_ that?”

The blonde woman merely smiles serenely. “Little Iris has a Crumple-horned Snorkack following her about. They are attracted to powerful magic.”

“Young Iris is a witch.” Draco states lowly, aiming a questioning look to Hermione. “That was the discovery you mentioned after your birthday luncheon?”

Luna’s eyes blow wide at that, her head turning to view Hermione with an uncharacteristic _suggestive_ look. Patently ignoring her friend, Hermione begins to explain but is saved from having to recount everything when Neville appears – red faced, sweating profusely and fighting for breath. He had forgotten how the underground worked and had gone one stop too far.

As Luna reaches up to wipe Neville’s face with a flannel she pulled out of nowhere, Hermione hands him a bottle of water from her beaded bag before stepping back unknowingly into Draco. She freezes, her shoulder blades resting lightly against his chest, his heat is somehow everywhere in that moment, his scent flooding out everything else. She closes her eyes and just breathes.

Tonight, when she indulges in fantasies of him, she wants to recall this exact –

“Granger?” His voice is rough, harshing her back into reality. She steps away from him quickly, elbowing a passerby in the process. She winces and weakly offers an apology. 

And Draco is still talking, his voice warm and reflecting an apparent fondness that shivers along her auditory nerve. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” 

For one insane moment, it is on the tip of her tongue to tell him – about her feelings, her attraction, the fantasies and the orgasms he and his image have wrought. For one insane moment, she wants to tell him to forsake his upbringing, to break his engagement, to give her a chance. 

But she stomps on that impulse, knowing it would be disastrous and selfish and futile. She loves him too much to ask him to choose. She loves him too much to ruin what they have presently. She’s too scared of a second rejection.

What she says is, “Just remembering that I forgot to tell Luna and Neville that I called ahead to request the rink be lit and the music turned down – no flashing lights, no loud noises.” She wills herself to _stop blushing_. “The proprietors were exceedingly agreeable.”

His occlumency shields are still very much engaged as he stares at her silently before wordlessly urging her to the side with one strong hand at the small of her back. “Lovegood and Longbottom are already on their way.” She stares at him, temporarily befuddled by the stubble just there lining his jawline. “Come along now.”

They cut through the foot traffic till she can see Luna and Neville’s forms bobbing along ahead. She knows Luna is skittish with too many people about and though it’s a Wednesday, it is still summer and teenagers are out and about as well as workers searching out lunch. She quickens her step with Draco still close behind her, his hand at her back inciting a noted heat melting down from the space between her hips. To distract herself from the sexual feelings thrumming through her, she asks the question she’s been wanting to ask since he arrived. “Are you okay?” 

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” She can’t see him, doesn’t want to risk looking back in the crush of people; but she can hear the tension in the timbre of his words.

“You’re tense, and your walls are up.” His hand drops from her back, and she tries again. “Is everything alright?” He had been fine just earlier . . . at the gym. Or maybe he had been there to let off some steam? She is familiar with his schedule and though it isn’t unusual for him to take an early exercise, it is also not part of his general routine.

He lengthens his stride to a more natural beat, pulling up evenly to Hermione, close enough that the backs of their hands occasionally brush past on a swing. “I paid Astoria an unplanned visit to . . . clarify some confusion about her wishes for the future.”

Hermione glances at him, noting the staid stroke of his profile, the tense line of his frame, the flair of his nostrils. Things had not gone well, she surmises. She struggles with an understated, guilty pleasure and a more prominent surrogate sadness.

Making a snap decision, she takes his hand in hers, her palm trying (and failing) to wrap around his, skin on skin, her small fingers sliding down to fit between his larger ones. He slows a little when she does it, the walls behind his eyes crashing down as violently as she nearly crashes into another pedestrian, at once preoccupied with watching him and over-focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It takes everything, all of her control, to resist the impulse to close her eyes and savor the contact. Her fantasies are ridiculously, shamefully innocent despite the sexual bent, often focusing on this – the joining of their hands. “If it was an unplanned visit, perhaps Astoria was simply having an off moment? Maybe if you try again later, things will be more favorable?” 

He takes up the pace again, squeezing her hand lightly. “No. She was very straight forward. Very honest. I have no doubt she meant everything.”

Hermione has no idea what he was talking to Astoria about this morning, but whatever it is has obviously unsettled him. “Do you . . . want to talk about it? I’ll listen. If you don’t want me to comment, I won’t.”

They are nearly to the skating rink. One more crosswalk and they’ll be there, Hermione can see the large, obviously aged brick and mortar. There’s an airbrushed sign, somewhat faded over the main entrance proudly advertising, “Silver Spoons Rollerdisco”. Neville and Luna are already nearing the doors while Draco pulls on her hand, a soft expression carving his face into something she has never really seen before. It reminds her – unnervingly – of her father when he looks at her mother. “Thank you, Hermione.”

His gratitude washes over her, chilled and bubbly like an especially wonderful champagne, tickling her nose and curling her toes. There is returning heat at her face and a subtle damp to her palms that she hopes doesn’t translate into the hand hold they have mutually sustained between them. She watches him as he pulls forward just a bit, pulling her along as her attention retreats to the angle of his jaw and the way his hair curls around the backs of his ears.

She reflects that they have gotten pretty close over the past months of their second chance friendship. She’s told him things she’s only ever told her therapist and – despite his stoic manner – he has opened up to her in return. A tremulous feeling bursts into her stomach as she imagines they will grow closer still and cannot definitively conclude if that is a _good_ thing considering he will be getting married soon.

The trembling at her middle becomes a dull ache. Maybe this relationship with her is interfering with his engagement with Astoria. Maybe . . . maybe she should start – slowly, quietly – to distance herself from him so he can better focus on the person he’ll be living and making a family with.

Her eyes fall to their joined hands and bites her tongue against the nausea that rises with the thought of pulling away. She is obviously in too deep. What was it that Luna had said? _Love is a good look on you._

Draco halts abruptly and she careens into his left side, her nose smashing into his back. She blindly rubs at the sting even as steady hands cradle either side of her face, thumbs easing over her cheeks, pressing just in front of her ears, tracing the hinge of her jaw to whisper against her pulse point. Hermione opens one eye, twitches her nose, smiles and brings his hands down between them with hers. 

She’s not sure how long she stands there as time seems inconsequential – a nuisance really – when one has something so pretty and interesting to look at. Everything fades away – the city and it’s sounds, the people and their problems, the engagement and his mother – until there is only the two of them. She takes in the mix of color in this eyes – not just gray but subtle browns and blues that shift with the light. Her lips burn because she’s suddenly very much aware that he is studying her just as intently in exactly the same way . . . . maybe for the same reason.

_Is he . . . is Draco attract –_

A throat clearing loudly brings her back to the present, to the skate rink, to reality. “If you like,” Neville says with a secret little grin that makes Hermione want to punch him, “we can leave you two alone.”

Draco is rolling his eyes heavenward as she looks at him – unsure of what any of this means if it means anything at all. “Of course not, Longbottom.” He stalks past Neville and Luna, wrenching open the door then standing by to usher them all in.

Hermione is a creature of words. She likes talking things out and asking questions and hearing answers. She wants – with everything in her – to ask that half-formed question aloud. She wants to know if such a thing were possible – could Draco Malfoy desire Hermione Granger? However, as she first watches Luna reach up to whisper something in Draco’s ear then passes into the building, she knows the answer doesn’t really matter. If he were to indicate interest in her beyond their current relationship, there is still his engagement. If he isn’t . . . well, (hopefully) she would – in time - overcome her feelings and remain friends with him . . . _Maybe._ Depending on whether she could find her way out from under the heartbreak and embarrassment. 

As all of these thoughts run through her head, she can feel Draco’s gaze boring into her with a heat that is at once pleasant and alarming.

Because, she can admit to herself that the attention is welcome; because, she wants him in every way she never thought possible a year and a lifetime ago; because, - if she is reading him correctly (and she has many doubts that she is) - Draco entailed the fidelity clause in his contract for a reason and she simply cannot imagine herself ruining that for him or Astoria (though a very, very small part wishes she _were_ bold enough to take what she wants without caring about reprisals); because . . . because loving someone the way she loves Draco sometimes means the best course of action is letting go.

Even if the only thing she is holding onto is a dream.

The sound of the door closing behind him jolts through her as she tries to gather the strength and courage to follow her own advice.

***

Muggles, Draco swears to himself, are all fucking masochists. There is simply no other explanation for this travesty called “roller skating”. What non-magical nutter thought strapping wheels to their feet then trying to walk/roll on an oiled surface without the aid of balance and cushioning charms was a good idea? Because if Draco ever finds himself in the possession of a time-turner, _this_ invention is the one he’s going to thoroughly erase. 

His entire body is one Draco-sized bruise, his head is sporting at least four knobs (masked – of course – by his impeccable coif), and he’s pretty sure there’s a broken bone somewhere. 

His knees are definitely shredded beneath his trousers.

The only bright point, that he can see, is the all too few times Hermione has fallen into him due to his beginner’s ineptitude. Really, the woman had been a fucking martyr, a saint, an angel – all patience and charm as she slogged around the rink in stops and starts (mostly stops) as Draco’s feet (literally) wheeled out from under him. He would topple with great force, all flying limbs grasping at Granger for purchase. She is so slight, she nearly always buckled under him; and he . . . he would always twist about so that he took the brunt of the impact.

Even with the pain of having adorably boney elbows stabbing into his solar plexus and god-sculpted knees bludgeoning his groin (entirely too near his invaluable heir-maker), Draco is hard pressed to think of a time he’s had so much _fun_ that didn’t involve sex or quidditch. 

And yes, he’s in pain; but he’s laughing through it – mostly because Hermione is too and her laugh is a precious, infectious thing – and pinned beneath a warm little body with soft hands and elegant curves that haunt his dreams and play behind his eyes when he has his cock in hand.

She always scrambles back to her feet as quickly as she can, giggling and breathless and flushed so prettily his heart clenches; and even though she tries relentlessly to help him, he usually has to crawl to a wall to stand again.

It’s undignifed and hacks away at his finely developed pride – especially when his feet keep sliding in opposite directions and he can’t seem to find stability, but she’s glowing at him so brightly, he finds he doesn’t mind in the least.

Thankfully, it is only the four of them – no loud music, no flashing lights, no darkness. Hermione has made sure their collective triggers are no where in sight. He’s laughing so hard his stomach hurts – something that hasn’t happened since he was a small boy - as she giggles and suggests they make their way out of the rink to rest, lick their wounds and get something to drink.

He doesn’t even realize he’s sweating until their hands are connected and the mingling damp of their palms gathers to drip on the floor. Clumsily, they stagger and trip toward the nearest rink exit, the thin carpet just outside smells of old cigarettes and feet but the friction provides Draco more control over his movements.

Movement which takes him to the nearest bench where he unties the fucking death-shoes off his feet with a visible relish. He can hear Lovegood laughing gaily as she soars on _one skate_ along with fucking Longbottom, their wheels sounding a hollow rumble that increases and decreases in volume in gliding patterns. How can he be so pants at this when fucking Longbottom has only tripped _twice?_

Granger groans as she drops down next to him, her shoulder kissing his upper arm as she leans slightly to untie one skate. “Now, now, Draco, it wasn’t all that bad, was it?” There is a lingering warble to her words, her breath chuckling through her teeth.

“Your teeth didn’t become intimate with a skate.” It was hers. He magnanimously forgave her.

She chortles even as she pats his face playfully before starting on the other skate. He loves watching her little fingers, all rose-tipped, clean nails and articulate sinew, unknotting the laces. “Consider it pay back for what you did to my teeth in fourth year. We are now even.”

“I wasn’t even aiming for you back then.” He doesn’t even try to fight the cheeky grin aimed at her. “Does this mean I never have to do this roller skating shite again?”

She’s giggling too hard and snorts and it’s the most amazing thing Draco has ever seen, heard or laughed at. It doesn’t phase him when she smacks him in the chest. “You are such a baby.”

“Oh really? I’ll remember this moment when I finally get you on a broom.”

She’s shaking her head and wagging a finger. “In your dreams, Malfoy.”

He doesn’t even think about it as he leans forward, their noses a mere millimeter apart. He can feel her breath – puffs of heat and cherry candy she had eaten earlier against his cheek; he can see into the depths of her eyes, flecks of amber contrasting ebony. _I want more than just dreams of you, Granger._

It’s there at the front of his mind, dancing tangy and sweet on his tongue, ready to be spoken. Her face is as red as her old house color, her nostrils flaring as she pants as hard as he is – as if they’ve just run – _skated_ – at top speed round and round the rink. He doesn’t look but he knows her lips are parted and it takes everything – absolutely every last bit of his already tattered inner strength to deny himself _one more time_.

Swallowing hard (and finding no satisfaction or succor), he closes his eyes, leans back and deliberately puts more space between them. He tries to remember the exact hue of Astoria’s lips, the smell of her perfume, the shape of her eyes and cannot see anything but Hermione, the woman he is beginning to believe is the love of his life.

He can read the moment she realizes what has happened, that he has retreated. Her face becomes a mottle of pale and red, her eyes drop to the ground and her hands snap to her lap. She is small and unsure and tearing at her bottom lip with teeth that he once derided. 

Feeling like a right heel, he apologizes softly – for insinuating himself into her space like that without permission. He doesn’t say he had wanted to kiss her – that he still wants to; he doesn’t say that he would give her anything she wished, fulfill any desire she craved if she would give him a chance to show her how good they could be.

His breath catches. _He would break the contract for her_. All she has to do is give him a sign that she might be . . .

Hermione’s laugh is sudden and fierce. “Don’t worry about it, Draco. I knew you were just joking. No harm done.” But he knows her now. He knows she is pulling her hair over her shoulder because she’s uncomfortable. He knows she won’t look at him because she’s embarrassed. He knows – as she stands in her socks and fiddles with the skates in her hands – that she’s about to leave him there.

“Do you want me to take your skates too? I can trade for our shoes and then we can go get that gelato I owe you.” 

He knows that she is thinking of a million and one things, countless explanations and scenarios and reactions. He knows she is weighing what just happened, trying to understand his motives, what he had planned, what she should have done versus what she did do. 

He knows that he is at fault for making her so anxious, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know if there is anything to actually fix.

“That would be marvelous. Thank you.” He hands her his skates, making sure not to touch her.

As he watches her walk away to the desk, he wonders how he can tolerate a lifetime of wanting her and not being able to have her. How many times will he have to watch her walk away? 

He rubs both hands roughly over his face as it hits him.

What will he do when she finds someone worthy of her? How can he watch her get married in the library when he can’t be the one standing next to her? Have children with some faceless wizard? Where can he find the courage to face it: this life before him with a woman he doesn’t love while the woman he does love moves on and forward, never knowing of his regard? In what universe could anyone endure that kind of hell?

When she returns, her smile doesn’t distract him from the two fingers scratching shallowly at the bandaged cursed wound. “Well, shall we?” She holds out her hand, her eyes shuttered and dark.

He sighs as he takes that small hand in his, marveling at how well they fit in every way, pondering _does she see it too_? “We shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter! (it might not be up on Sunday, just a warning): THE ROCKPOOLING CHAPTER! Also, Draco breaks the engagement. Hermione gets asked out on a date. XD
> 
> Notes:  
> Silver Spoons Rollerdisco is a real place - unfortunately I've never been there and couldn't find pictures of the exterior so all descriptions of the place are mine and based on the roller rink near me.
> 
> Astoria is not an evil bitch. She is acting in a very deliberate way (no different than Draco does at one point in this chapter). All will be revealed in chapter 12).
> 
> Yes. Blaise and Theo WILL make an appearance.
> 
> Also, ntf got the correct quote from chapter 9! Whenever you're ready, just let me know what missing moment you would like me to write about!
> 
> AND! I missed it but I am working on a Valentine's fic for Hermione/Draco. I hope everyone had a lovely holiday with your loved ones!


	12. Catch and Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Astoria go rock pooling with Hermione. A contract is broken. Hermione is asked out on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovies. It seems I'm off schedule *LOL* So I'll just be posting as I finish, I guess. I'm averaging one week per chapter so hopefully I can keep up that speed. Most of the rest is written or outlined so, hoping there won't be too many obstacles text wise. 
> 
> As for this chapter, I feel like it's very uneven. I'm not really satisfied with it. I wish I could blame it on my medication but I really just think I'm too anxious to get to AFTER ^____^
> 
> The rockpooling idea came from Sillypoppet88!!! As I've never rockpooled, I'm hoping I got it right! Feel free to correct me!
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who's reading, everyone who kudos, everyone who comments. Thank you so much for your time and understanding!
> 
> Triggers: mentions of self mutilation, mentions of implied abuse, controlling parents, manipulation and the usual ptsd/anxiety.

August 29, 2000

Today is going to be a disaster. The knowledge (not feeling) had taken residence in his brain before he had fallen asleep the night before, lodged itself firmly into his gut to be birthed fully formed the moment he lays eyes on Astoria, dressed in a white linen pant suit with red heeled sandals and a wide brim red hat. A rather large straw tote is grasped between her hands, a parasol indiscreetly peeking out one side.

He suddenly has a keen understanding for Hermione’s irritation with his wardrobe. “Did you actually read Granger’s instructions?” His tone, Draco admits, is – at best – antagonistic, his patience having already worn thin with the needlessly difficult woman before him.

She scowls, unimpressed with his manner. “Of course, I did. This is the most casual outfit I own. I wore it often on the beaches of Paros. And I have appropriate swimwear underneath.”

Which of course meant a full swimming dress; but you wouldn’t know it to look at her, a fashionable silhouette of sleek, long lines and muted curves. She looks like a centerfold straight out of _Modern Wizard,_ like she’s about to spend a day at some exclusive resort on the French Riviera rather than a beach wading through rock pools searching for sea life.

He grunts and holds out his arm. Her touch is cold and dry as she reaches out to grasp him in preparation for a side-along to the beach. For the last few days he’s practiced apparating to the site Hermione had indicated in her correspondence so that he would be sure to appear somewhere away from prying muggle eyes. Although, Hermione had assured him that a week day would probably prevent large groups of people from seeking the ocean.

The stretch and crush and pull of apparition is something one never truly grows accustomed to and for long moments, Draco watches with a twisting stomach as Astoria dry heaves (in the most dainty way possible). Once he gets his bearings and Astoria is no longer doubled over, he takes in the almost familiar crescent shaped shoreline, the interior sandy beach flanked by protecting rock formations and the copse of multicolored, similarly shaped buildings set back from the beach.

There are a few people wading through the undulating waterline, mostly couples – a few with small children. It’s a beautiful day – all clear sky and sunlight, warm air and a cool little breeze. He wouldn’t be surprised if more people heeded the lure of this secluded bit of perfection sooner or later.

“Is that her?” Astoria asks from his side, her tone hinting at disapproval, her arm raised and finger pointing imperiously. 

Hermione is trotting toward them and when Draco registers what she’s wearing his brain shorts out. Her hair is piled on top of her head like a particularly oversized and angry puffskein, but it isn’t her hair that has him immediately half hard and aching to palm himself. 

At first glance, her sleeveless top seems perfectly modest but as she gets closer, it looks as if the material has been shredded by the claws of a werewolf, the hem leaving her midriff exposed. Through the teasing ripped cloth he can see the outline of _another_ bikini top, this one in black with equally black strings coming up to wrap around the back of her neck. Low-riding denims adorn her hips . . .and little else, the legs cut in a ragged fashion so high he can see the interior pockets resting again her luscious outer thighs.

Despite being so short, her legs seem endlessly long. He licks his lips, trying to remember words when her gaze meets his, her smile wide and so fucking beautiful he wants to taste it to see if her lips are as sweet as they look.

Astoria trips forward, her sandals struggling to stay on her feet in the shifting sands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Miss Granger.”

Hermione glances at him questioningly before aiming the full force of her smile on Astoria, stepping into the other woman to embrace and air kiss with such a perfect measure of propriety it would make his mother swoon. “Please call me Hermione, Miss Greengrass. I hope you enjoy your time with me today.” She doesn’t say anything about Astoria’s clothes or the obvious judgement in Astoria’s cold eyes. “I have a place scouted out to put your things, Miss Greengrass . . . . I have sunscreen if either of you need it, pails, snacks and water. I tried to think of everything since neither of you have done this before.”

He still hasn’t said anything, and while he absolutely realizes this is the very height of bad manners, Draco is hard pressed to vocalize anything. It becomes even more difficult when she turns and he sees the back of her shirt is similarly torn and her denims barely cover her bum. The difficultly of walking in sand creates an exaggerated sway to her walk that –

“She’s very . . . forceful.”

_And fucking sexy without even realizing it._

“And you were quite rude. You didn’t even introduce us properly.” Astoria’s words are accusatory and disappointed. 

He tears his gaze away from Hermione’s form as he reluctantly takes Astoria’s hand to follow. “Sorry. I was . . . distracted.”

His fiancée sighs, and as he glances at her, he notices for the first time that she looks . . . tired, almost dejected. “It’s truly a lovely day and the beach is cleaner than I thought it would be.”

With that seal of approval, they follow Hermione to a little area several feet from the water’s reach where a Muggle cooler and Hermione’s beaded bag sit in the shade of a large umbrella. Astoria sets her bag down and strips her ill-advised sandals and linen outer clothes to reveal her swimming dress – the hem reaching her knees and the straps spanning to the tip of her shoulders. 

If Hermione finds it strange, she makes no comment – something Draco is grateful for. He desperately wants the two women to get along and knows Astoria’s attitude will most likely be an obstacle to that desire.

Patiently, Hermione explains and demonstrates the best areas to study, what to look for, how to lower the pail into the water and identify the contents. Her smile never falters, an excitement buzzing beneath the syllables of her words, a happy light in her eyes. She tells them of this time-honored tradition between her and her parents and how she’s happy to share this with them now, her eyes focused on Draco. 

Astoria doesn’t talk much as they explore the shallows as waves gently roll through the low tide. She doesn’t complain about the heat or the rocks, the loud caw of the birds overhead or the itch of sand in sensitive areas. She participates and occasionally asks questions, her painted mouth pursed in something resembling concentration or consternation.

Draco stations himself close to Hermione, ever watchful and conversing with her about many things – not just the crab he found or the jellyfish floating like ghosts in her pail. They laugh when his fingers are stained purple by a sea hare. Hermione tries her best to draw Astoria into their dialogue, but is rarely successful – which is strange as Draco catches a strange eager look in Astoria’s eyes when Hermione isn’t looking.

They break after a good while for shade and cool drinks, snacks and a lie down – with Astoria between him and Hermione – beneath the umbrella. By this time there are several more people walking about – throwing flying discs and multicolored balls that float, walking dogs and chasing children. A few others are rockpooling as they were, lowering their buckets or showing their catches to children.

As they lay, Astoria dozes as Draco and Hermione talk in hushed tones. He tells her of waking this morning to find Theodore Nott Jr. lounging in his main room without prior notice, and how they had sorted out their differences with a few punches and slaps about the head. Hermione hmphs about men and machismo before saying she is happy they have reconnected, that he has another friend in his corner, before asking if he left Nott to fend for himself.

Draco levers himself on an elbow, taking in the sun darkened hue of her skin, the grains of sand melded to it, the dips and contours of her, the reddish sheen blooming over the bridge of her nose. He licks his lips, drinks some water, suddenly parched. “Yes. He’s still there. Says Blaise shouldn’t be far behind.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, and – honestly- he’s not sure there is anything to say. Blaise is (was?) a rampant blood supremacist, spewing the same rhetoric as Lucius during their years at Hogwarts – at least behind closed doors. Theo had always been more skittish about committing himself to the vitriol and now admits he’s never been convinced of pureblood superiority, one of many reasons he was never offered up to take the Mark.

It had been a relief to Draco to hear his friend was of a similar attitude about the prejudice they had been spoon fed since infancy. However, the prospect of a confrontation with Blaise fills him with dread.

“Well, then,” Hermione sighs, getting to her knees. “Maybe we should enjoy the low tide a little more before we pack up?”

He rouses Astoria easily though she makes it clear that she doesn’t appreciate the sand itching beneath her suit nor the bright sunlight nor the oppressive heat, nor the smell of sea water clinging to her skin. 

It’s nearing lunch time and though they traipse across the rocks smoothly, they are moving slower than before – their muscles settled into the restful haze of before. 

At some point, he loses track of Astoria, keeping close to Hermione, watching her as she moves. There are glints of gold and copper woven into her brown curls that glint in the sunlight. He wonders if her skin is as soft and warm as it looks. The graceful lines of her fingers as they work in the water - lifting the pail, sheltering whatever living thing she’s smiling at - becomes images of her hands on his skin, her fingers sucked into his mouth, wrapped around his –

“Draco, can you come here for a moment?” Astoria is standing in her linens again, her sandals held in one hand by their straps. Despite a slight sunburn tinting her cheeks, the tangle of her hair, and the odd water stain, she is still pristinely beautiful. He wonders if her seeming immovable perfection is due to beauty charms.

Glancing at Hermione who is busy studying a starfish in the surf, he walks over to his fiancée. “Yes, what is it?”

She draws herself up as if readying for battle. “I think I’m ready to return home.”

He’s not, but he begins gathering the pail and small net Astoria had been using. “Yes, we’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” 

There is nothing but the sound of waves, of voices and bird song and the beat of his heart as his hands grapple with the tools and he rises to his feet, smiling lazily at her. He doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to be away from Hermione longer than he has to; but it’s been a satisfying day, and he is filled with a sense of well-being.

As if confirming his good mood, he hears her from behind him say, “Miss Granger is a lovely woman.” They are nearly to the umbrella and Astoria’s bag while Hermione remains in the midst of rocks, her small form standing out golden against the slate gray rocks. 

He grins, “I knew you would like her.” He can’t imagine anyone disliking her, such is his regard. 

As he grabs Astoria’s tote, he finally looks at his intended and the grin falls. Her expression is pinched, tense and . . . unpleasant. There is a shadow in her eyes that reminds him of sixth year – of desperation and thoughts of jumping off a tower. “I do not wish to deepen our acquaintance.”

Taken aback, Draco narrows his gaze. “And what does that mean?”

The pout she shoots back at him lacks something that he’s hard-pressed to analyze with the growing roar in his ears. “You watch and talk to her more than you do to me . . . even when I’m right here with you.” She squares her shoulders but her gaze skitters to the side, just past his ear. “I won’t have my betrothed humiliate me with a mistress before the wedding even takes place.”

Draco stares at her, unseeing and feeling as if his world is about to shatter. “I was the one who asked for the fidelity clause in our contract.” Something in him is strained and tender, hurting. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to point out there is nothing inappropriate between himself and Hermione save his own secret thoughts.

He watches as Astoria’s hands fidget, nails clacking as they fit together and bite at nail beds. “And I thank you for being so considerate to me; however, I will not have that . . . woman, interfering with our courtship or marriage.”

His whole body is numb and the world narrows to just the two of them in the worst way. Sound is muted by the pounding of his heart and the panic setting in, darkening the peripheral of his vision. He tries to slow his breath, counts to himself as he holds it in, lets it go. Distantly he realizes he’s dropped everything. 

Astoria is suddenly no more or less than a complete stranger of whom he knows only a few characteristic facts: she might be more open-minded than some purebloods, but she is still a Slytherin – goal oriented and laser focused on realizing those goals. Right now, her goal is obviously to eliminate a perceived threat to her future.

A future they are supposed to share. Somehow.

(Nothing has seemed more impossible to him – even repairing the fucking vanishing cabinet. Possibly the prospect of killing Dumbledore.)

Still breathing through the panic, he grinds his teeth. “Speak plainly, Astoria.”

She purses her lips, straightens to her full height, grounds her feet. “I can see that you bear a deep affection and attachment to her; however, I am to be your _wife_ , and I don’t want you seeing her anymore.”

And just like that the guilt-mortared wall that encapsulates his soul crumbles under the weight of her ultimatum. There is no choice. There never was. He has been fooling himself with lies and self-bargaining.

The panic subsides. His breath resumes a normal tempo. He picks up their things again.

Mouth tight in a straight line, Draco neglects to look at Astoria as he stiffly begins to walk away. 

“If you don’t leave with me now, Draco, I shall consider out contract null,” she calls after him softly, her hands now tangled in the hem of her tunic, wrinkling the fabric to an unpresentable degree.

He stops for a moment, nods and approaches Hermione. 

She’s on her knees, bent down low over the edge of a rock, her face nearly touching the water as she gently tips her pail to replace the guppies swimming about the perimeter. The sight of her somewhat settles the maelstrom swirling around his gut. Her smile gives him the strength of conviction. His decision is sound. He knows it with a crystal clear certainty that settles into his bones.

Helping her to her feet, Draco takes a moment to etch this moment in his memory, recording the shape and expression of her face, the exact color of her eyes with that sliver of sunlight painting the iris a dark honey, each precious freckle standing out on her nose, the shade of rose darkening her cheeks. He locks it all away tightly within his heart where even the strongest obliviate couldn’t take it away.

“Tired?” Her lips are curled with a teasing humor that he tries to return and fails.

“Astoria has had enough sun, I think.”

Hermione blinks, her eyes shifting to view Astoria behind him before waving in large swoops of both arms. “I hope everything is okay.”

He summons an assuring smile. “It is. Thank you for inviting us. We both enjoyed the activity and the company.”

They say their goodbyes as Hermione gathers her things. It takes all of his strength to turn away and walk back to Astoria, knowing what he must do. They return to the outcropping they had apparated near this morning. He doesn’t even feel Astoria’s touch as they apparate back to her house.

***

With an echoing _crack,_ Astoria is again at home, ensconced in the main parlor – all blues and sea foam with white furniture and nearly surrounded by floor to ceiling windows and breathtaking views of the Greengrass Estate gardens (always ranking 2nd to the Malfoys’). 

But Astoria can’t see it for the storm cloud bearing down on her named Draco. Inside, she quails at the anger there. She doesn’t much like being reprimanded or yelled at. She’s gotten enough of that from her father. But she has to see this plan through. It’s . . . it’s her last resort.

Swallowing down her fear that this is all for naught _again_ , Astoria meets Draco with an affected poise. “I see you’ve made the correct choice.”

But he is shaking his head as he says flatly, “I’m done, Astoria.”

Relief sits at the base of her spine in a bubble just waiting to burst, but she needs the words from him. She needs _confirmation_. Willing him to speak more, to say the words she’s been wanting to hear, she stares at him as she shakily sits down upon a chair more suited to decoration than comfort. “I see.”

He’s pacing like some exotic jungle cat she’s read about, and even though she’s getting what she wants _finally_ , Astoria can feel nothing but dejected and small and incomprehensibly sad watching him. When he finally focuses on her, he sets it down, “I don’t want to marry you.”

The bubble of relief bursts like waves breaking over the rocks at the beach – spreading through her insides then folding back into the depths. She sighs, still melancholic for all of her triumph. “Honestly, I don’t want to marry you either.”

He seems incensed by this confession, whirling about at her and slashing the air with a finger, “Then why the fuck didn’t you say so when I asked you plainly last week?”

His voice is rising which makes her squirrely and search for exits. Taking a moment to steady herself, Astoria grips the seat of her chair, assuring herself that Draco is not her father. “My sister was in the other room, Draco. Had I responded in any other way, she would have told my father, and – frankly – being honest wasn’t worth the headache that would have caused.”

But Draco is stubborn. She had become well acquainted with just how stubborn he could be over the months of their courtship. “Why didn’t you break the contract if the thought of marrying me is so abhorrant?”

 _Why indeed,_ she thinks snidely. _The privilege of those blessed with a penis._ Did he not realize that she was worth less than chattel to her family? Born a spare then perceived worthless as even that by being a girl, her thoughts and feelings have never been sought. No, she was raised knowing her life had been planned out from infancy to death in contracts, directives, and orders. “Did you know you’re the third contract my parents negotiated for me?” 

If he is in any way confused by the turn in subject, he doesn’t show it. “How is that possible? We were engaged when you were only months old.”

She has no loyalty to her father; however, what she is about to say could very well be illegal. She shucks her sandals and walks over to the open double doors of the parlor, closing them softly before casting privacy and silencing charms. On the walk back to Draco, she notes the sand deposits near his feet and the barely visible footprints on the floor. She’ll have to clean that before her mother notices. “When Voldemort rose again and it was discovered that your father was still his servant, my father started looking for alternatives. He was so desperate, he even looked into prospects in the U.S. and Siberia. A contract was made with Lev Zograf, but it fell through during the signing ceremony when his ex-girlfriend showed up pregnant. 

I was then successfully engaged to Akakios Xenakis in Greece. When my father received your missive asking if the engagement between us was still valid, he discussed it with my other fiancé and they decided between themselves that it would be best to honor the agreement with your family.”

Judging by Draco’s horrified, slack-jawed expression, he didn’t miss the gaping exclusion of her own opinion. “Didn’t they ask you what you wanted?”

Astoria shakes her head, remembering the simmering anger and well of tears she had buried deep in her lungs while sitting there with her father, mother and Akakios as _they_ hashed out her future as if it had nothing whatever to do with her. “Had they asked, I would have chosen neither option.” She chances a glance at him. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He begins pacing again, but this time it’s more a nervous tick than an exercise to control his temper, she can tell. “Why did you go along with it?”

She doesn’t look at him, feeling suddenly the over-familiar sense of deficiency. “Because that is what good pureblood ladies do, Draco. We follow our father’s word then submit to our husbands.” There are exceptions to the rule, of course. Daphne would never be expected to blindly follow her husband’s will and Pansy had an astounding amount of independence in her marriage if rumor was to be believed.

However, had anyone stopped to genuinely ask Astoria what she wanted out of life, she would say she preferred the option of remaining unwed. She would have revealed the shocking, rebellious desire to never reproduce. No, she doesn’t want the pureblood life of leisure. She wants to travel, to adventure in both the muggle and wizarding worlds, to take many lovers and sleep naked on the beach, to eat _everything_ and be _selfish_ without worrying about pleasing anyone or restricting herself or following _someone else’s_ desires.

“Is that why you wouldn’t tell me a damn thing about yourself all this time?” Draco grouses, accusing. “Fuck, Astoria, I wasn’t thrilled about marrying you either but I’ve been busting my ass _trying_.”

She has the grace to feel guilty for just a moment. “I know . . . I know, and I appreciate that you were trying to make the best of it, I do. It’s just –“

His eyes are suddenly boring into her, silver and cutting like razors. “Who is it?”

 _How . . . how does he_ know _?_ She presses her lips together, feeling the imprint of her teeth.

“Who are you in love with?” It’s barked at her and she wilts.

Blinking rapidly, she desperately stomps down on the urge to cry. There will be time later. Maybe. If everyone would just leave her alone for five minutes. Not that crying would fix anything. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Draco – apparently – isn’t appreciative of her knowledgeable assertion. “If he’s pure-blood, you could negotiate –“

“He’s already engaged.” She tells him quickly, wanting this conversation to be over and done so she can have just one fucking minute to herself. “Set to be married soon actually.” And then the real nightmare begins, she thinks dully.

His gaze goes distant, and she knows he’s cataloguing all of the engaged purebloods in Britain – there are so few. When his focus trains on her again, there is an expression of pity in his eyes that she doesn’t want to take. “You’re in love with Terrence Higgs.”

She doesn’t have to say anything as the blood drains from her leaving her hands cold and grasping together with nervous strength.

Dropping down into a nearby arm chair in sea foam silk brocade, Draco runs his hands through his sea curling hair. “Does Daphne know?”

Nausea makes her throat feel tight as she shakes her head slowly and trains her gaze on a lone grain of sand against the tile floor. “No. And I don’t want her to. They are happy together and –“

“Does _he_ know?” he cuts in.

She nods just as slowly, her hands pressing together even harder. “He . . . After the war was over, Terrence came to stay with us, in Greece. He wanted to start officially courting Daphne; but she was accepted into the Healer training program at Mykonos so she wasn’t home much. We . . . spent a lot of time together and fell in love. He told me he was going to ask my father to break the contract with Daphne and negotiate one with me; but –“

“But my letter arrived,” he hisses, and she releases her hands long enough to wrap her arms around upraised knees. Again, she doesn’t say anything. There is nothing to say.

Draco cards a hand through his hair again. “Fuck.”

She keeps talking because the alternative is crying or screaming, and if Father is home, neither of those are acceptable. “We . . . agreed that I should honor the contract with you, Daphne finished her program, and Terrence started spending more time with her . . .”

He’s abandoned his hair for massaging his eye sockets. “She loves him.”

“Yes. I couldn’t . . . she’s so happy, and he . . . he loves her too now.” It’s the first time she’s shared this with anyone – the secret of her affair held only by herself and _him_ , Terrance. There is a subtle freedom in the sharing, a slight but detectable lessening of her pain and loneliness.

She isn’t prepared emotionally when Draco appears before her on his knees, his hands taking hers, his silver eyes flashing soft like stardust. “I’m sorry, Astoria.”

Her breath catches because no one has ever thought to apologize to her. Terrance never apologized for letting her go. Her father never apologized for selling her off over and over again without a care for how she might feel about being passed off like a bad knut. Her mother never apologized for standing by and letting everything happen. “I’m sorry too.” She tightens her hand in his, holding on like he’s a lifeline. “I knew the moment I met you that I would never be able to make you happy.”

His gaze softens, “Because you’re not happy.” It’s true. She doesn’t think she’s ever been really happy. How does one recognize happiness? Even when she was with Terrance, there was always a sense of fleetingness . . . of frailty. It covered every aspect of her love with a veil of impending misery.

She meets his soft gaze directly. “I also knew I wouldn’t be happy with you.” A talk with Daphne before their first courtship meeting had convinced her of that.

Draco huffs a laugh, his expression more relaxed than she has ever seen from him. “I guess not.” He squeezes her hand while giving her a shrewd look. “So . . . was this the final push then?”

“It doesn’t take a genius to see you’re in love with Miss Granger, Draco. I’ve known since the first time you mentioned her.” She doesn’t say that he’s beautiful when he talks about Miss Granger. She doesn’t say she wishes she hasn’t ruined the chance to make friends of them. 

She’s so tired of being alone.

Draco doesn’t deny the allegation of his love, and Astoria smiles, glad that she is able to appreciate his chance at happiness. “So you forced me to choose.”

And now the crux of everything . . . She sighs. “My father won’t allow me to break the contract. I’ve asked several times. However, he might listen to you.” She doesn’t say that she is just the spare, a failed one, that she doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s been beaten into her with words and fists since she was old enough to speak up for herself. She shouldn’t have to explain it to one such as the Malfoy heir.

Nor does she need to explain that her father’s approval is crucial as all four original signatories must agree to the breaking before the contract is legally void. “Why the fuck didn’t you just _tell_ me you wanted to break the contract?” He’s pacing again, his hands in his hair, but his skin is a normal complexion and his eyes are steady. 

She’s not afraid of his temper this time.

“As you said, you were _trying._ You were putting in a colossal effort and I had a feeling, despite your affections for Miss Granger, you would attempt to convince me to try too.” It had been a disappointing prospect, that he would be . . . amiable. She had hoped for someone of a similar mind to her; and when he proved to be taking the courtship seriously, she had done everything she could think of to be what he _didn’t want_ in a wife. (The fact that what Draco didn’t want coincided with what her father believed a pureblood bride _should be_ was an unexpected boon).

Watching his frustration, anger, sadness, and flashes of heartbreak – particularly when talking about her vision of their projected children – had nearly broken her; because she genuinely does like Draco. It brought her no joy to sabotage his efforts and make him feel hopeless. 

Draco takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, running his hands roughly over his head and down his neck to pull on his shoulders. “I have some appointments this afternoon, but I’ll speak to your father as soon as possible.”

It probably wouldn’t help, but she had already caused this man so much trouble. “I’ll accompany you . . . . Just . . . be prepared. He was looking forward to having an in with the Malfoy family.”

Draco smirks, seeming self-assured and confident where she is still trembling inside. “Don’t worry, Astoria. I never enter a negotiation without a few cards up my sleeve, and a Malfoy always gets what he wants.”

***

September 1, 2000

Hermione’s hand aches as she holds tightly to the hanging hand strap in the Ministry elevator. The car is full of bodies that jostle her. Someone steps on her foot. The buzz of magic in the cramped space is entirely too oppressive, and she reminds herself over and over that she’s only here for a few minutes, that she can go back home soon.

The push and pull – back and forth and side to side – makes her unsteady on her feet, and she has the insane thought that this is exactly what flying on a broom feels like . . . only without the excessive body heat, the elbow stabbing her in the back, and the lingering smell of stale tea and dead dreams.

When she finally reaches her floor, she sends up a little self-gratitude that – despite the pencil skirt and silk blouse – she had donned trainers instead of heels. It made sprinting (or . . . probably ‘jogging’ would be more apt, Hermione isn’t a runner) through the network of cubicles, bull pens, offices, and tea/coffee stations just a little easier.

There are people she knows and people she doesn’t. They look up as she passes with some calling her name, others falling back out of her way when they see her coming. She flies into Cormac Mcglaggen, clipping his arm and causing hot coffee to spill over his button up and down her arm – soaking the bandage beneath her sleeve.

She doesn’t stop, even when he curses at her, even when the heat scalds the already painful bold type lacerations.

The howler had said he was researching something, but it is still early. Maybe he is taking tea? She scans the haphazard directional plates along every other wall, making her way to the library. She will check there first, and if he isn’t there then –

A line of pain and fire erupts across her back and radiates into her spine, her arms and legs as she goes down – hard - to the floor, the carpet neatly skinning her knees. She realizes quickly that she is unable to move – a body bind, she thinks dully. 

There is a commotion, voices and shifting footsteps, masculine shoes in her line of sight, hands pawing at her back and arms. Someone squeezes the sensitive burned and mutilated wrist and forearm, causing her to let out a silent scream. 

Another set of hands forcefully removes the first and then she is on her back and staring into the horrified face of Neville Longbottom. “Merlin, Hermione! _Finite Incantatem.”_

She allows him to help her sit up, works her jaw and checks her now coffee and blood stained bandage. “I’m fine.” Actually, she’s breathless from the run and fall, her head hurts and her arm is a burning, throbbing mess that she wants to tear open until nothing of the limb is left. “What happened?”

“There were reports of an intruder running through the 5th floor.” He takes her hands and helps her up, steadying her then shooting a potently scathing look at the milling onlookers. It reminds her of the moment he took the sword to Nagini’s neck. She touches his cheek, bringing his attention back to her.

“Why aren’t you on your honeymoon?” He and Luna had married the previous Saturday in one of the most beautiful ceremonies Hermione had ever witnessed. There weren’t many people in attendance, but the love was palpable just the same. 

(And she had been right, Neville had nearly fainted when he had seen Luna in her dress.) 

Neville’s expression turns adorably besotted. “Luna and I decided to wait for a bit. She wants to go to the Netherlands in the spring . . . says everything is more _fertile_.”

Hermione hides her smile and uses his nearness to hug him. “I’m sure it will be lovely – the tulip fields . . . “

He grins down at her and nods. “So, what have you infiltrated the Ministry for today, Miss Granger?”

She tsks and balls her fists on her hips. “I am perfectly within my rights to be here, Mr. Longbottom.”

“Yes, but you seemed in quite a hurry.”

Right. She _is_ in a hurry. Her arms drop down to her sides though her fists don’t relax. “I received a howler fro ---” She pauses to get her bearings. “Do you know where Draco is?”

Neville’s grin only grows, a jaunty light coming to his eyes. “Of course, you’re looking for _Draco_.”

“Neville,” Hermione growls. “Don’t start this nonsense again.”

He takes her uninjured arm and begins leading her down the hall – in the opposite direction than where she had been headed, glancing a warning at anyone nearby. “You’re the brightest witch of our generation, Hermione; however, you are being woefully ignorant. Even I can see that --”

“Do you know where he is or not?” Hermione doesn’t want to be rude but the howler had said --

He chuckles a little, but she can tell he’s going to drop it. “He’s in the library. I was actually with him a few moments ago. He had some questions about a rare herb found in –”

“I love you Neville, but I need to know if he seemed okay.” 

Neville’s expression is thoughtful, his smile reassuring. “Yes. Actually, I’ve never seen him in a _better_ mood.”

That causes her to stop, turning more directly to her friend. “He’s in a good mood?” She knows she doesn’t look particularly happy about it. She can feel her brows screw up in confusion. “He . . . he isn’t morose or angry or . . . unkempt?” The howler had explicitly said _out-of-sorts and possibly suicidal._

Now Neville looks confused too. “Goodness, no. He even smiled at me when I greeted him, and he was whistling when I left – like a songbird.”

She stares at him, lost for a moment between the contents of accusations and cold words falling from a red envelope and the mental image of Draco-the-stoic _whistling Dixie._ “Could you take me to him, please Neville?”

He offers his arm with that sweet, unassuming smile she remembers on a train with a lost toad and a hundred children who are new and magic, just like her; and they set off again as he leads and she follows. 

When they reach the library, the librarian – a harried Susan Bones – greets her with a hug and a promise that they will catch up soon. Neville waves a brief ‘see you later’ after he tells Susan that Hermione has business with Malfoy.

Susan gives Hermione an uncertain look before, “Are you sure? He’s been in a right mood, this morning.”

She can hear a rather accurate trilling version of Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus” coming from somewhere deep in the stacks. “Er . . . Neville said he was . . . pleasant?”

Wide-eyed, Susan nods. “Oh he is! It’s just . . . not like him.” She leans closer, glancing toward the stacks and whispering, “It’s rather unsettling. I mean, he’s generally civil but usually keeps to himself, but today he actually asked how I was doing and if I had done something new with my hair. Whilst smiling!”

The mention of hair reminds Hermione that she had been getting dressed when the howler arrived, that she had not had time to pull a brush or comb or any type of ordering tool through her curls at all this morning. Good Lord, no wonder someone had reported an _intruder_. No wonder Neville had cast a body bind on her. 

She had probably looked like some lost muggle woman being mauled by a rabid poodle overdue for a trip to the groomers.

Hermione closes her eyes and huffs a steadying breath, wondering what the hell she is actually doing here. It’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is fine. “May I?”

Susan nods emphatically. “Yes, that’s – I just need you to sign here.”

After observing the library rules, Hermione meanders, following the hollow sound of Malfoy’s lone whistle, her fingers brushing across the horrifically dusty spines of books that probably hadn’t seen the light of a lamp in a century. (She tries not to get too distracted by wondering what secrets hide in their pages). Her steps are eerily muted by the worn black carpet and shadows cling to the dingy Regency-era wallpaper. 

The acoustics of the space are awful, and she is misdirected over and over again until she sees him – five shelves away and nestled in a ratty brown armchair with a stack of tomes obscuring his feet. The tightness that has been choking her chest since the receiving the howler from Narcissa Malfoy loosens. 

_He’s fine_. In his unbuttoned single-breasted suit jacket with the peaked lapels that seem to reflect his sharp features, _he is fine_. With his intelligent eyes focused on the book in his hand, _he is fine_. Smiling softly at the contents on a page Hermione can’t see, _he is fine_. 

Sweet relief bubbles up from her midsection, heating her neck and tingling her nose. She doesn’t want to cry right now. She wouldn’t know how to answer the questions he would ask about them if she did.

Approaching silently, she wonders how he could be so immersed he hasn’t sensed her. Just as she doesn’t understand how she could have laid her defenses so low she had been hexed just a quarter hour ago. Is the war so far away now? Has it been so long since their lives were on the line and everything was a potential threat? _Constant vigilance._

Then the uncertainty grips – what would she say? What is she here for if he’s okay? How can she spin this without exposing how unhinged the thought of him in pain and suffering had made her? Why was she acting like this when she had resolved to _distance_ herself?

And just as suddenly as the uncertainty grabs hold, she observes something extraordinary, something that stops her in her tracks (again). It’s so subtle, she almost misses it. Yet, there it is, written into the muss of his hair and the fall of his shoulders. It glows from his eyes and the softened lines of his face. Even his hands – those hands that have drawn and held her attention for months – articulate the elusive discovery with the ease of their grip, the lack of tension in his wrists.

Draco Malfoy is a picture of relaxation. It is such a different look for him that he almost seems a different person, a stranger. His whistling shifts to “Unchained Melody” by The Righteous Brothers. Hermione presses fingertips to her mouth. She had seen it before. Draco had always seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his back. 

The man before her is no longer burdened.

She’s happy to see it, but she also doesn’t understand. Mrs. Malfoy’s message had indicated an emotional tailspin caused by Draco’s cessation of contact with his father and the breaking of his engagement.

_Because of you._

That’s what Mrs. Malfoy had said. Because of her, Hermione. Not that she knows or can even guess how she could be responsible.

But here is Malfoy, content and whistling while he reads about – she squints but cannot discern the titles – something, probably about plants if his discussion with Neville is anything to go by. Most likely researching some new potion idea for his business.

She shakes her head as she turns slowly to make her way out. Did he patch things up with Astoria? With his father? Maybe Mrs. Malfoy was incorrect . . . but why would she write to Hermione in the first place? Why would she think Hermione had anything to do with Draco and his relationships? 

_What am I doing here?_

When she first received the news, her first instinct was to get to him, worry taking up all the thought space in her brain. She hadn’t really thought about what she would say or do. She tries to tell herself that she would have had the same reaction if it had been Harry’s engagement to end or Ron’s marriage, but Hermione isn’t in the habit of lying to herself. 

Also, she sincerely doubts Mrs. Weasley would blame her for or announce the separation though a howler. Because she would never have had a smidgeon of an idea that maybe Hermione could be a rebound for Harry or Ron.

Hermione hates herself for entertaining the idea with Draco.

She should have waited for Draco to tell her himself instead of walking into . . . . whatever it is Mrs. Malfoy (maybe?) wanted her to walk into.

Taken by uncertainty, Hermione begins to retreat, internally kicking herself for getting so carried away (literally) by her emotions, she doesn’t notice when Draco stops whistling.

“Granger?” She silently groans as her face warms in embarrassment. But there is no time to come up with an explanation because his hands are turning her around and his fingers are cupping her face and his features are a mask of concern. “What are you doing here? Has something happened?”

***

Draco can barely read the words on the page in front of him, and the difficulty has nothing to do with the horrible Ministry lighting. No, his mind is thoroughly distracted with how fucking relieved and light and free he is.

 _Free._ Free of Lucius. Free of Malfoy Holdings. Free of that fucking engagement. 

He’s never felt so _proud_ of himself. So accomplished and carefree. For the first time, he is truly only beholden to himself and no one else. He thought he would be afraid of the responsibility, of the inherent authority; but he’s not. He’s ready to be his own master, and he never wants to be jailed by someone else’s will again.

Where before his options were limited by the imagination of another, he can see infinite possibilities for his future, for his next steps. The potion he is currently formulating is just the beginning. Ending his engagement is just the beginning. Letting go of his perceived familial debts is just the beginning.

From now on, he would chart his own future from his own desires and his own ability. He would be beholden to no one. He would allow no one to hold him back. 

This feeling of liberation is intoxicating and fills every recess of his mind until there is nothing left but a universal sense of _celebration._ How did Sinatra put it? _With a song in my heart._ He can’t stop whistling for the humming pleasure in his chest. 

The only thing that could possibly make today better was Hermione, here with him. 

And then – unbelievably – there she is, like a fucking seelie.

His first thought is that something must have happened. Hermione is still squirrely about the magical world. She is especially wary of the Ministry where more than one battle saw her injured. If she is seeking him out here, he can only assume it’s to report on some traumatic matter. 

So he touches her as he wants and holds her close as he needs and studies her in more detail than he’s ever allowed, assuring himself that she is whole and healthy before asking after her reason for being here.

Draco isn’t sure how she does it, but Hermione Granger becomes more beautiful every time he sees her; and as he looks into her wide brown eyes, he remembers the feel of her sand roughened, sun warm skin and the smell of sea water and fresh fish. Her hair is loose and a riot around her head, so similar to the chaotic up do she had sported that day on the beach.

His fingertips tingle where they skim along the contours of her face, the skin smooth beneath his touch, her pink lips parted and tempting. 

It’s a pleasant surprise to see her (on a Friday) – in the magical world, in the _Ministry_ – but also worrying. He isn’t aware of any business she might have with the Ministry and it’s obvious by the state of her hair, dress, and . . . choice of shoe that she wasn’t prepared to come here. His eyes trail over her features and down her form as his fingers fall across her jawline, her chin, down her neck to cup her small shoulders. 

It’s then he sees the still damp coffee stain and pushes her sleeve up to see the bloody bandage. 

“I . . . I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” She says it like a mantra. He tilts her chin up slightly to better see into the depths of her eyes. There is confusion there as well as hesitation but no pain, not right now.

He softens his hold, steps a little away (when all he really wants to do is hold her close and never let go). “What are you doing here, Granger?” 

She bites her bottom lip, folds her top lip over her teeth, contemplating him then sighing and closing her eyes. “Draco . . . Did you break your engagement?”

He’s so consumed with the desire to bite her lip for her that he nearly misses her actual question. When it registers, he immediately knows his mother has a hand in this. Only five people know of his broken engagement – himself, Astoria, Mr. Greengrass, Mrs. Greengrass, and his mother. He knows he didn’t tell Hermione. The Greengrasses wouldn’t have told Hermione. He and Astoria had agreed to keep things quiet until an official announcement could be drafted for the _Prophet_.

He sighs and decides he needs confirmation. “Who told you?”

Hermione blanches, pulling further out of his hold. “Does it matter?” To Draco, this is an affirmation. Definitely his mother. “I . . . Was I somehow responsible?” 

Fuck, he loves her so much and that look of barely veiled fear tears at him. He sighs again, running a hand through his hair before knotting his hands behind his neck and pulling, internally debating. “Astoria told me to choose.”

“Choose?”

“Marry her or remain friends with you.”

Draco isn’t prepared for the devastation written on Hermione’s face. “Draco . . . I . . . You should talk to her. Tell her you’ve changed your mind.”

The world – which had been bright and beautiful only moments ago despite the drab décor suddenly turns cramped and dark. “ _What the fuck, Hermione.”_ He cannot believe what he’s just heard from _her_ mouth – that fucking gorgeous, kissable mouth. Hasn’t she been listening to him? Hasn’t she understood how he felt about Astoria and his impending marriage to her?

Even angry, he can’t resist how adorably confused and earnest she is. “It’s not . . . It’s not the way it sounds. I love being friends with you, but I . . . what I want most is for you to be happy, Draco. And if there is the smallest chance you could be happy with Astoria –“

Something gentle and soft cracks open inside him. Was it possible to love someone this much? So much that the very magnitude is too much to fill the world let alone one man? He wonders how this woman before him is so selfless, so genuine in her wishes for others’ happiness. He wants to tell her that he doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve her stubborn goodness; but he is selfish, and with new freedom comes a new ambition: Whether he deserves her or not, he will work to have her. All he needs is a sign, just a small signal that she wants him too. “Let me assure you, I was not in love with Astoria and I never _wanted_ to marry her, nor did she want to marry me. I am perfectly happy now that the engagement is over. We both are.”

“But don’t you think –“

His hands tighten around her shoulders as he brings to bear the full brunt of his focus. “Hermione. While I appreciate your concerns, I remind you that my engagement – whether active or broken - as well as my other personal relationships are my business.”

For a moment, she looks shaken and pale, and he’s poised to apologize. Then her gaze skitters to the side, and he can feel the heat of her blush before it crawls up into her cheeks. The tension in her body slackens slightly until she is almost . . . pliant. 

_Well, well,_ he internally purrs.

But it isn’t enough. Attraction, arousal – these are base things. He wants all of her. He wants her attraction and interest, her passion and love, her attention and need. He wants her trust, her faith, her _future_. He . . . wants to belong to her though he knows she is too great to ever belong to anyone. It doesn’t matter to him if she ever wants to belong to him as long as she eventually knows that _they belong together._

“As my friend, I will solicit advice when warranted.” He softens his voice, “Okay?”

She smiles but it’s a shaky thing. It’s enough. For now. “Okay.” 

It’s Friday, but he asks her if she would like to have lunch with him. It’s the right thing to do. Her smile brightens, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to tell her how fucking gorgeous she is. “It’s only 10 o’clock.”

“Brunch then. I’m not getting anywhere with my research. Too distracted by my triumphant return to bachelorhood.”

“We’ll have to stop over at my house first. I have to do something with this hair . . . and grab the correct shoes.”

He tugs on a stray curl and tells her that her hair is perfect and that when she passes no one is interested in her feet. She stutters and fidgets and blushes bright red just the way he likes. He rasps a “Shall we?” as he offers his arm. She is breathless as she takes it.

She is quick at her house, changing into a different blouse, changing her bandage; pinning her hair into a tight bun that tempts his fingers to loosen the abused strands; exchanging her trainers for black kitten heels with a beguiling little white bow in the back. Those bows make him want to tear her knickers off.

 _It’s fine_ – he tells himself. _All in good time_.

They dine at Toulous – the place where their friendship began, and it’s achingly shorter than he would like; however, Hermione has several appointments to see to today and so does he. 

But before they part in front of the restaurant, Hermione grabs hold of his sleeve to ask, “Are you really okay . . . about Astoria, I mean?”

He smiles at her, giving in to the impulse to feather his fingertips down her face. He loves how her breath catches and her color runs high. “Honestly? I’m disappointed that I couldn’t give my mother this one tradition in the midst of all the changes we’ve gone through as a family; but . . . more than anything, I’m relieved.”

She seems equally relieved, her hand falling over his. One touch and he can barely contain himself, so he tells her that he’ll owl tonight and leaves, a small laugh bubbling in his chest as he suppresses the impulse to jump and click his heels.

***

His first appointment of the afternoon is with his own mother. Over the last few days, they have reached a priceless peace between them, coming to an understanding after many talks and confessions. 

_After his and Astoria’s agreement to break the contract, they had decided to confront each set of parents together – showing a united front rather than dividing to conquer. He had theorized approaching his mother first would aid them in persuading Mr. Greengrass to nullify the contract._

_(Draco would never tell the daughter, but he had more than enough blackmail material on the Greengrass patriarch to warrant swift action; however – after discovering Astoria’s true feelings about her position and future, he had decided to use those secrets to barter for Astoria’s emancipation and the retainer of her dowry. It’s what Hermione would want him to do, he thought)._

_They had gone to Malfoy Manor directly, interrupting his mother during an audience with Penelope Parkinson in the main parlor. She had been visibly startled to see them there – he in his dirty t-shirt and sea swept hair and Astoria in her damp, sand logged linens and sunburnt nose. Mrs. Parkinson had turned her nose up at them in disgust and fairly squealed in righteous anger when Draco had calmly ordered her out of his house._

_Narcissa’s frosty expression was unsuccessful in masking her ire. “What could be so important that you would willfully treat a guest with such atrocious manners?”_

_It was Astoria who answered. “We wish to break the engagement.”_

_Draco had watched, distantly horrified, as his mother deflated into a bare wisp of herself, falling gracelessly into a slump, her face suddenly showing her age in lines and pale skin and shaking hands. “I can’t say I am very surprised.” Her blue eyes snapped to him, and he was shocked to see moisture shining there. “My dragon.” She had murmured with a small, sad smile twisting her lips. “You have finally awakened.”_

“Darling.” She’s in her office, writing in a ledger, spectacles perched pretty and shining on her nose. “I was expecting you later. I’ll just call Topsy to bring some tea.”

“No need, Mother.” He says, leaning over to kiss her brow. “I’m here only for a short time.”

She sets down her quill and smiles brightly. “Oh? And to what do I owe your presence?”

_Unsure of whether she was being genuine, Draco proceeded in an orderly fashion, as if this was a corporate meeting and nothing more complicated. “Astoria and I are in complete agreement that this marriage does not serve either of us in any capacity.”_

_Narcissa’s tear-filled gaze shifted to Astoria who stood awkwardly with her long hair curling at the ends and algae stuck beneath her nails. “I am sorry you both feel that way; however, it is well that you have decided this in concert and so far in advance of the bonding.”_

He smiles back easily, still riding the high of liberation and time with Hermione. “I was actually interested in a bit of correspondence you penned this morning.”

Calm as a starless night, his mother removes her spectacles before folding her hands in her lap, the smile only growing warmer. “I write to many people, dear. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“To a certain muggle-born.”

“Ah. That one.”

His eyes narrow, but there is humor there, he knows. He is simply overflowing with wave after wave of positive feelings. “Yes. That one.”

_“Mother, you have been the champion of this match. Now we ask that you unravel your hard work. Please say you will agree to resign your signature.” They were in a deadlock, staring at each other across the room. He tried not to hope too hard or thoroughly. She was trying not to let the tears flow._

_In a strange way, he felt more connected to her right then than he had since Voldemort had taken residence in the Manor. Here was something they had both held so valuable – in vastly different ways and for very different reasons – that, when looked at with a certain lens, wasn’t all that valuable at all; something that they could only destroy together._

_“Your happiness is my_ only _priority, love.” She sniffed, one tear falling over then others following. Draco was quick to offer his handkerchief. “Of course, you will need Mr. Greengrass to agree to resign as well.”_

“I told you before, dear: Your happiness is my only priority.”

“I’m not angry, Mother. In fact, I want to thank you.”

That sweet motherly smile turns sly, calculating and triumphant. “She took the bait.”

When he arrived, there was a half-baked notion to reprimand her for being the emotionally manipulative snake he has always known her to be; but this time, he understands her motives, has reaped the benefits of her machinations. He opens a secret compartment in the wall to pour himself and her a little elfwine. “She was under the impression that she was somehow at fault for my doomed engagement.”

His mother accepts the crystal goblet he hands her. “Are you saying that you would stand before me, a single man, were Hermione Granger a mere memory of a long absent schoolmate?”

_He asked Astoria softly if he could speak to his mother alone. She nodded, smiled at Narcissa then left in the direction of the first floor library._

_Alone with his mother for the first time since their last argument, he approaches slowly then falls into the chair next to her – an antique dating back to the Restoration. “Thank you for being agreeable, Mother.”_

_The tip of her nose was red and her eyes were swelling. Her tears were real, and he didn’t know how to process that. While his mind was occupied trying to find something appropriate to say in such an unusual and unexpected scene, her body turned toward him, her hands took either side of his face, smooshing his cheeks slightly. “I keep telling you but you seem to stubbornly pretend to not hear: Your happiness is everything to me. Of course, I will help you break this engagement. I can see now, how miserable you’ve been.”_

_He swallowed. “My feelings toward Hermione Granger have not changed.”_

_She patted his cheek. “I know, dear. You’ve never been terribly fickle.” Blowing her nose, she laughed, the sound brittle and self-deprecating. “For the past week, I have been in a state of self-reflection, and I have found that you were right. I have been living as if Lucius will return. I have been acting to earn his approval.” Her eyes were a deep, endless blue – as if the ice had melted into a calm ocean. “I realized I don’t know how to live for myself.”_

He smirks and sips his wine. “I like to think we would have found our way to each other eventually.” He pins her with serious eyes. “However, I would ask that you not manipulate her in this fashion again.”

“Of course not.” She sniffs. “Although, we’re not getting any younger, dear. I would very much enjoy having grand-children sooner rather than later.”

“I’m barely twenty!”

“And you have yet to ask the girl out.” She pins him with a look of her own. “What, exactly, is the problem?”

_“Mother . . . “_

_She stood and paced around to gaze out the window toward the hedge maze. “I’ve been thinking quite a lot – about your . . . Lucius and the decisions we made . . . the_ mistakes _. I’ve gone over the arguments we’ve been having and even used a pensieve to better understand . . .” She puffed up her cheeks than blew out harshly. It was the single most undignified thing he had ever witnessed from his mother. “I realized, watching as you changed before my eyes a second time, I haven’t been listening to you. I . . . have been too immersed in my need to be your mother, to guide and mold you into the heir Lucius wanted you to be. Because . . . if I am not your mother and I am not a wife, all I have left is an empty house full of dark magic and nightmares.” She shuddered. Hard. “And that terrifies me.”_

“I’m not yet certain of her interest. She seems to be satisfied with our friendship.”

Her gaze seems to take in all of him. “She obviously cares for you deeply if she was moved to visit you this morning.”

He shakes his head and sets down his goblet. “You will find, Mother, that Hermione Granger can never be anything less than extraordinary. Even in the simple act of caring for a friend.”

Draco has talked – at length – about Hermione’s many talents and gifts, their shared work ethic, her work for muggle-borns, the many adventures they’ve had, and the comfort of her family . . . among other things (such as his decision to cut Lucius out of his life and the state of Malfoy Holdings and VERUS); and he has to give his mother credit, she has striven to be open-minded and keep jealousy from overshadowing the wonder of Draco actually _sharing_ his life with her after so long.

_The anguish in her face was enough to prompt him to embrace her, and it was awkward and too long in coming because the last time he had hugged her, he was barely tall enough to wrap his arms around her waist. Now, he is a few inches taller than her, and he’s unsure how to hold her._

_His mother didn’t seem bothered by his fumbling. “But more terrifying was seeing you suffer so obviously while I dismissed you over and over again.” She sobbed and he felt it like a blow to his chest. “I’m so sorry, my dragon.”_

“Well, then, such a jewel will not be long undiscovered, son. Whatever it is holding you back, will only steal away the limited opportunities that remain to claim her.” Her expression is fond if a little reserved. He knows she is still not entirely comfortable with his affection for a muggle-born. “Do not wait overlong.”

_Draco, unfamiliar with his mother’s tears, struggled to shush her, running a hand down her hair, her back as she shook and wailed and tried to hide her face. She rasped that she was so proud of the man he had become, so utterly in awe of him for his bravery and conviction and success. She told him that he has a good heart and that she was ashamed for not protecting him, for not nurturing that goodness . . . for allowing familial tradition and expectation to overshadow her love for him._

_She confessed that her regrets regarding her cowardice in that regard dated back to her childhood when she did nothing to help her beloved sister Andromeda, when she did nothing to stop Lucius from becoming a Death Eater, when she did nothing to stop Draco from taking the Mark himself, when she did nothing when children – including her own – had been tortured in her home and out of it._

_In that moment, with his mother’s tears washing over his neck and his knees going weak, Draco allowed himself to fall – knees to the floor, head buried in her stomach, arms wrapped tight around her waist. In that moment, he was once again a little boy – his mother’s dragon, innocent of the truly dark things lying in wait just beyond the front door. In that moment, he forgave her in gasping words and his own sobs, overcome in the sudden knowledge that in forgiving her he was forgiving himself._

“She’s not one a man can ‘claim,’ Mother. Rather, as I chose her, I wish her to choose me.” Draco drains the wine, banishes the crystal. 

Narcissa smiles softly, almost serenely as she assures him. “My dear dragon, I wager she already has.”

***

Hogwarts at night is still one of the most beautiful, intimidating sights Draco has ever seen. He has been making another round of apologies to various shopkeepers and residents of Hogsmeade since taking leave of his mother in the afternoon. He had appointments with Headmistress McGonagall and several professors, Madame Pince, Madam Pomfrey – even Filch - earlier in the week to do the same.

Earlier, he had visited Dumbledore’s crypt and his god-father’s grave.

Now, he stands in the paddock near Hagrid’s hut, well after the dinner feast, light beckoning from the windows, unable to move forward to knock. He has saved Hagrid for last, though he still isn’t sure why.

Energetic barking sounds into the night, and Draco sighs when Hagrid asks Fang “wha’ the devil’s gah’n inta yeh’?” Gathering the vestiges of his mediocre courage, Draco steps up to the heavy wooden door and knocks three times.

He can feel the hut shudder with each of Hagrid’s steps as Fang begins to howl mercilessly, and then there is light and a hulking form framed in shadow. Hagrid steps back, recognizing him. “Young Malfoy.”

“Hagrid.” Draco doesn’t smile, but he does nod in respect. There are several moments of awkward silence in which Draco stands in the older man’s shadow and Hagrid stares down at his former student and tormentor. 

Sweating beneath his suit, Draco quickly apologizes for visiting so late and on the first day of school no less. He asks if the first years are settling in, if the current Slytherins are behaving themselves. Hagrid is silent through the word vomit assaulting him, but eventually softens, stepping aside to say, “Well, come in then. Mind yer ‘ead.”

The shifting firelight and candle flame make the small space somehow smaller or perhaps his perception has shrunk with physical growth. Even Fang seems to be smaller than he remembers, the dog growling at him and bearing teeth until Hagrid swipes him across the nose with a reprimand.

No seat is offered nor refreshment, not that Draco thinks he deserves it. Hagrid settles himself in the worn out, moth eaten and stained armchair near the fire, black eyes glittering from deep set eye sockets expectantly. “So Young Malfoy, wha’ business?”

He licks his lips, curls his fingers into his palms to keep from fidgeting. “I . . . wanted to apologize to you Hagrid – for my disrespectful attitude, for every dishonest word I spoke against you, for undermining your authority, underestimating your knowledge and behaving abhorrently in your class, for purposefully trying to get you arrested and nearly getting an innocent creature put to death. Further, I’m sorry for my part in the war – there is no excuse save my willful ignorance and undeserved arrogance.” He scratches at his brow, absently, allowing a self-deprecating grin. “That’s all I wanted to say. Have a good night, Hagrid.”

Turning to leave, he tries not to be too discouraged. He has his freedom from the engagement, the renewed relationship with his mother, and his own newly born internal clemency. Hagrid’s forgiveness isn’t necessary . . . but it is _wanted_. 

Just as he is reaching for the door handle, Hagrid’s voice booms, “Would yeh like a cup o’ tea, Draco? I’ve also got here a fresh batch o’ cauldron cakes.”

He accepts both with gratitude, Hagrid briefly smiles; but it’s something. Tentatively, slowly, _painfully_ they begin to talk – about the past, about the present. Draco politely asks after Madame Maxime. Hagrid comments about things he’s heard about Draco’s apothecary. 

Draco mentions he’s currently working on a potion and would appreciate Hagrid’s input, particularly regarding native vegetation found in the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid says he would be glad to help, then mentions he should also ask Hermione. “Yeh two are close now, I’ve heard.”

Knowing Hermione often sought Hagrid when Potter and Weasel were being twats during school, Draco isn’t very surprised. “Yes. We spend quite a bit of time together these days. Actually, we had a bit of a holiday at the beach just a few days ago with --”

Looking pleased as punch, Hagrid laughs and cuffs him on the elbow with enough force to nearly throw Draco off the chair. “Good man! I tol’ her – I says, “’ermione, if that Malfoy boy is good ‘nough teh fancy, then ‘e isn’t fool enough to say no to yeh.”

Draco takes a moment to register _exactly_ what Hagrid just said. _Hermione fancies . . . or fancied me?_ A wave of elation rolls through his body. He wants to jump up and throw up his arms like he’s just caught the snitch; but he knows he must tread carefully. Hagrid is under an incorrect impression and has just unknowingly dispersed sensitive information; and while Draco does not want to invade Hermione’s privacy, his heart is telling him this is the sign he’s been hoping for and to dig just a little deeper.

“Definitely no fool.” He clears his throat. “I’ve found that Granger is . . . she’s easy to love.”

“Aye, that she is.” Hagrid wipes at one eye as if brushing away a tear. “Mother hen, that one. Always lookin’ out for ev’ryone. Smart as a whip.” He sniffs then blows his nose loudly into a dark flannel. “Lovely, but never really convinced of i’.” Dark eyes seem to swallow Draco whole. “You’d bes’ treat ‘er right, young Malfoy.” 

“I fully intend too, Hagrid.” And he does. “Does Granger visit the grounds often?” Fragile hope has lodged in his diaphragm making him sound just a tad breathless. 

“No. Hadn’t visited since the clean up then shows up near a month ago. Been writin’ to ‘er ever since.” A sly grin beneath the heavy beard. “Writes abou’ you quite a bit. Ne’er tol’ me if she had asked yeh out like I tol’ her to though.” He rocks forward in his armchair, chuckling. “Good that yeh showed up to le’ me know, eh?”

 _Almost a month ago_. Almost a month ago Hermione had told Hagrid she fancied him and Hagrid had advised her to ask him out; but for some reason, she hadn’t.

Why hadn’t she asked him? He would have said y –

 _No._ He would have said no, because at the time he had been engaged and beholden to a contract with a fidelity clause. _He would have fucking said no._

And then he remembers, an unexpected hug, the stench of old grease, Hermione’s bright blush as she asked him to join her for dinner . . . _nearly a bloody month ago_. He closes his eyes as the memory plays in his mind. He had been such a _fucking idiot._ Yes, he had had a legitimate reason for letting her down; but to dismiss the invitation as a chance to _work_. _What the fuck was he thinking?_ And more importantly, _What the fuck must she have thought?_

He remembers how awkward she seemed after, how confused he had been that she wouldn’t look him in the eye. Hagrid had been right when he said Hermione didn’t really know how appealing she could be. He had noticed how she deflected compliments and seemed oblivious when attention was paid. How much bravery had to be spent for her to ask her _former bully and enemy_ out on a date? How much of a blow to her ego must it have been to be dismissed so thoroughly and _then_ informed of his engagement? _Morgana’s frigid tit, he had fucked up badly._

She had been right there, telling him she was fucking interested, and he had been too far up his own arse to see it.

_Fuck. Fuck. FUCK._

Suddenly her weak attempt to convince him to reconcile with Astoria makes _sense._

He feels the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold. What if that had been his only chance? What if her feelings – in light of the engagement – had cooled? He doesn’t think she would be so flighty – she had waited ages for Weasley after all; and he recalls the hungry shine in her eyes when she found him at the gym and the way she leaned in slightly when he nearly kissed her at the skating rink, how nervous she was when she realized – 

And that moment when he recognized her attraction to him in the Ministry library just this morning. _Holy FUCK_. The Ministry – she braved the fucking _Ministry of Magic_ after avoiding the wizarding world for over a _bleeding year_ to check on him after hearing about his broken engagement. 

“You a’right there, Malfoy?” Hagrid’s brogue scatters his swirling thoughts. 

The fire crackles and so does Draco’s determination. This . . . this boon is an _opportunity_ , and what kind of Slytherin would he be if he didn’t take advantage of it? Hermione had made the first move, and – regardless of the outcome – it was now his turn.

Draco grins widely at the old groundskeeper. “Couldn’t be better, Hagrid; however, I just remembered some correspondence I need to send out tonight before it gets too late.” He stands and makes his way passed a dozing Fang to the door. “Thank you for seeing me and allowing me to apologize.”

“’t was no trouble, m’ boy. Visit anytime and bring ‘ermione wit’ yeh.”

He bows with a flourish before leaving, recapturing that light airy feeling of freedom from this morning, and marching into the paddock where Buckbeak is grazing. Despite wanting to write to Hermione _now,_ Draco stops, watching the creature as it becomes aware of him. 

They stare at each other, Draco feeling an inner calm that comes with knowing exactly who he is and what he is about. Swallowing, he bows – an apology from a man who was once a boy who didn’t know that humility was _strength_ rather than weakness.

Countless seconds pass in cricket chirps, frog croaks, and owl hoots before slowly, deliberately the hippogriff bows back before taking flight.

Draco feels the wingbeats like a ceremonial drum playing the transforming song of his heart.

*** 

September 2, 2000

It’s half past midnight and Hermione is in her room, her eyes going dull by lamplight as she tries to revise for her N.E.W.T.S. despite having been awake for nearly seventeen hours and traveling to three countries via international portkey . . . _after_ her impromptu visit to the Ministry.

She rubs at her face and sets down her pen. Maybe now would be a good time to go to bed. She has to wake at six . . . this morning. Her eyes roam to catch on the vial of Dreamless Sleep potion poised on her bedside table. Too late for that.

Organizing her things, she consults her schedule one more time for today. She has five portkeys to catch then school visitations are on Monday. If things keep going so well, she’ll have enough profits to justify hiring a second consultant within a few months. She smiles and allows herself to feel optimistic.

 _Tap, tap._ It’s coming from the window, but who on Earth would send an owl at this hour? _Unless it’s an emergency . . ._

Quickly, she opens the window, finding Draco’s lovely Guinevere, fluffing her feathers and giving Hermione a sharp look. Taking the rolled up parchment and feeding the owl a treat, Hermione calls out when the bird takes to the skies again without awaiting a response. She doesn’t come back.

Thoroughly discombobulated and tired, Hermione quickly reads the missive and falls slowly to her bedroom floor, gobsmacked.

_Dearest Miss Granger,_

_Allow me to apologize for the strange timing of this missive. I have only recently returned to my home and found that I could not wait till morning nor Tuesday to request the pleasure of your presence for dinner at 7 o’clock, September 8th. Dress is semi-formal._

_Yours,_

_Lord Draco Malfoy_

_P.S. This is two-way parchment. Simply write your response below._

Hermione’s heart is beating so fast, she wonders if she should make her way to hospital, then she realizes he probably just has business on the brain and tries to bury the endless disappointment. Just because he’s now single doesn’t mean he would suddenly see her as a prospective . . . _something_. 

The facts that he “could not wait” and that the dress is semi-formal mean nothing.

She responds:

_Dear Lord Malfoy,_

_Your letter rather took me by surprise, as I am more accustomed to being addressed as “insufferable swot” (even at such a late hour). The formality is unnecessary, I assure you, as I would be delighted to join you for dinner this coming Friday in semi-formal attire. What shall we be discussing so that I may prepare? Is there a problem at VERUS? I can bring the draft letters I’ve written to the Governors for review._

_Respectfully,_

_H.G._

_P.S. In no way does my address of you as “Dear Lord” indicate any sort of fealty._

His reply is swift and pointed, eating up the original message.

_Dearest Insufferable Swot,_

_Under no circumstances are you to bring work. In fact, you are forbidden from mentioning anything to do with work for the entirety of dinner and beyond._

_Yours,_

_Incomparable Git_

_P.S. In no way does my use of the word “forbidden” indicate a delusion of your subservience._

Perplexed, Hermione stares at his most recent message. Then why -- ?

_Dear Incomparable Git,_

_If we are not to speak of work, why ever are you asking me to dinner?_

_Warmest Regards,_

_H.G._

_P.S. Should you like to keep your bollocks where they are, I would advise to **never** use the word forbid in conjunction with me ever again._

It’s strange, but Hermione can almost feel his humor tinged impatience as the words appear . . .

_Dear Hermione,_

_Obviously, it’s a date._

_Yours,_

_D.M._

_P.S. Noted._

She swallows, paces. Places the little scrap of parchment on the floor and circles it. She brushes her teeth, drinks some water, contemplates putting on trainers and going for a run when she’s not even a runner. Her muscles feel jumpy, her chest full of hot air. 

_Fear._

But also, a delicate, sprouting _hope._

_Draco,_

_You . . . want to date me?_

_Is this a joke?_

_Hermione_

Gnawing on the ink cap of her pen, Hermione waits, watching Draco’s elegant scrawl cross the blank space, wide awake and her heart in her throat.

_Hermione,_

_I assure you I am quite serious that yes, I want to date you. In all honesty, there are many things I want to do with you. Dating is simply the start of – what I hope will be – a natural progression._

_Faithfully Yours,_

_Draco_

Her eyes burn and her breath is thick. She suddenly has the insane thought to floo over to his house right this second and tell him in person just how badly she’s wanted to be with him. Instead, she takes up her pen and – trembling – writes: 

_Draco,_

_I want to date and do many other things with you too._

_Warmest Regards,_

_Hermione_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: There will be a bit of a time skip but I will go over their first date as well as their first kiss. That's all I'm gonna say ^_^
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> Paros is in Greece ^_^
> 
> Lev Zograf is keeper on the Bulgarian National quidditch team that played in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup.
> 
> Akakios Xenakis is my own creation. The family name Xenakis was taken from the minor character of Georgios Xenakis who is a Greek wizard and served as the referee during the 2014 Quidditch World Cup.
> 
> I mention Draco sits on an antique chair dating back to the Restoration which lasted circa 1660-1685.


	13. The Flavor of Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first date! And then confusion and introspection and obsessing and then Hermione learns how to EXPRESS HERSELF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. Hermione was really hard to pin down in this chapter (you shall see).
> 
> Also, for like MOST of this chapter, you will LOVE me. For a bit of it, you will want to hunt me down and flush my head in a toilet. Just letting you know.
> 
> Triggers: A little anxiety/depression.

September 8, 2000

Hermione stands before her bed with an expression of abject desperation. She owns exactly four dresses: the casual yellow smock that she wore for the birthday luncheon; the dated red dress she had donned for Bill and Fleur’s wedding an eternity ago; a whimsical little white sundress she had bought last year before remembering her massacred arm; and the periwinkle lace bodycon dress she wore to Ron’s wedding.

She immediately knows the first three won’t do. The yellow and white dresses are entirely too casual and the red . . . the red is slightly moth eaten and reminds her of darkness, a ruined wedding, and the need to run. That leaves the periwinkle but it’s rather . . . underwhelming when she thinks of Draco dressed in one of his designer tailored suits.

Why hadn’t she gone shopping for a new dress? Yes, she’d been busy (between all the portkey travel, consultations, and studying for her N.E.W.T.s she’s barely had time to breathe); but . . . this is _important._

“Why didn’t you let me bring you shopping for a new dress?” Sarah stomps into the room, a pink duffle with gray trim hanging from her fingers. “Did you see if your mum has something?”

“I can’t wear mum’s clothes, she’s taller and more top heavy.” 

“Don’t let Aunt Hels hear you say that.” Sarah’s on the bed, taking care not to crush the dresses, unloading the bag – hair dryer, curling irons, flat iron, brushes, combs, countless hair and makeup products. “I would offer something of mine but we both know anything I have would float on you.”

Sarah isn’t overweight but tall and voluptuous to a degree that makes Hermione’s frame look downright boyish.

Honestly, she could alter any of these alternative options with magic; but Hermione doesn’t want to wear someone else’s clothes, not for this. “I’ll just have to wear the periwinkle.”

Helen and Aunt Meggie appear, flanking her to survey the four dresses as well. “The periwinkle is lovely on you, dear,” Helen says. Aunt Meggie nods, slipping her hand into Hermione’s. “Oh yes, darling, that color is spectacular on you. It brings out your coloring so beautifully.”

Sarah snorts from her spot on the bed. “It’s nice but rather plain. We’ll have to play up your hair and face.” She picks up a palette, makes a stink face then sets it down. “Did he say where he’s taking you?”

Draco has not told her where he’s taking her, though she is reasonably sure the restaurant will be some ultra-posh (and expensive) fine dining establishment that requires a reservation. She tells Sarah so, wheeling about to look at herself in the mirror. Her hair is wrapped up in a towel and she only has her regular undergarments beneath her dressing gown. She swallows thinking she needs to stop hoping she’ll look beautiful for him. 

“You’re always beautiful, Nee-Nee.” Sarah says, coming up behind her. Apparently, she hadn’t just thought it. 

She catches her mother’s nod in the mirror as Aunt Meggie pulls her by the hand to sit on her desk chair. “And that boy knows it. It’s in the way he looks at you, mark my words.”

Hermione still isn’t sure how Aunt Meggie has come to be here. She had called Sarah to help her with her hair and makeup since Sarah works as a cosmetologist at a popular salon. Apparently, Aunt Meggie had been informed of the momentous event and followed. 

Not that Hermione is ungrateful. This is only her second ever date (the Yule Ball doesn’t count because it was a communal, public event and the Slug Club night with Cormac had been more about revenge than anything), and it’s rather nice, that she isn’t the only one who cares about the outcome.

_He cares too._

She feels the blood rush to her face as she bites her lip, failing to stop a smile even as Sarah unwraps her hair and begins the arduous process of combing through the damp strands. The last week has been a special kind of torture, exchanging flirtatious notes and sharing long phone conversations that would have her shivering at the depth and rough quality of his voice. 

Tuesday had been especially titillating. Instead of their usual one-on-one luncheon, they spent the day helping Astoria move into her new flat in Hogsmeade – the move necessary after Mr. Greengrass had effectively disowned his ‘spare’. 

Hermione had been nervous before meeting the former ‘couple’, unsure how to relate to Draco in light of their mutual confession of wanting more than base friendship; but she needn’t have been. Draco had been his usual self only _more_ – more attentive, constantly touching her, more watchful, making his interest evident. 

As the day had worn on, cleaning walls and base boards then moving furniture and non-essentials, she had grown more comfortable with the crackling air of _anticipation_ that hung fuzzy and electric around them. In moments when they found themselves alone, Hermione would ask him about the perceived (and recently doubted) ‘moments’ between them to clarify things in her mind. And he had been honest in his answers – so honest it was a little unnerving. She had felt like a permanent blush all day. 

“What the hell do you use to wash your hair, Hermione? Lye?” Sarah is gripping the length of one section of hair and straining to pull the comb through one large knot.

Aunt Meggie tuts. “Now, now, my Sarah. We can’t all be blessed with your perfect coif.” She glances apologetically at Hermione as Sarah furiously sprays something sweet smelling at Hermione’s hair. “I don’t know where she gets it from.”

Hermione grimaces when Sarah pulls at her scalp though the comb is now traveling more smoothly. “Mum, are you okay? You’ve been pretty quiet over there.” 

Helen steps over to sit on the bed, as close to Hermione as Sarah’s movements will allow. “I’m fine, love. Just thinking.”

Sarah scoffs. “She’s wondering how you could date your former bully.”

“Sarah.” Helen warns but doesn’t dispute the charge.

“I mean,” Sarah continues, “no judgement, but you bitched about him the _entire_ family holiday in France when you were – what? – about fourteen. I remember because I wrote about in my journal _in red ink_ – which was reserved for the most grievous of sins committed against me. It went something like, _Dear Diary, Hermione continues to be a right horror and seems bent on driving me barmy. She’s constantly bitching about some boy named Drake Mal-twat. I had planned to tie her up with a rope made of Baker’s dirty boxers and gag her with his sports cup, but I imagine the parents would notice her unusual silence shortly and her absence eventually. (I don’t think Baker would miss his underwear much; however, he needs his cup for football.) Alternatively, I long for an ice pick to give myself a lobotomy so that I won’t have to hear her nattering on about Mal-twat’s shenanigans ever again.”_

Hermione giggles. “You missed your calling. You should have been a comedy writer. And I did _not_ talk about him that much.”

“Oooh, you absolutely did. To reiterate, I was going to gag you with Baker’s _dirty_ jock strap.”

“Well, I think he’s grown into a lovely young man.” Aunt Meggie offers diplomatically. “And he obviously bears no ill will toward our Nee-Nee anymore.”

Hermione nods and winces when it cause more pain around her head. “He made a rather beautiful apology before we became friends.” Sarah mutters noncommittally as she pins a combed section of hair to Hermione’s head before taking up another to comb.

Helen smiles and takes one of Hermione’s hands. “Actually, I was thinking of how you wrote to me after your first train ride to school and declared that you would marry Draco one day.”

Sarah crows, Aunt Meggie claps, and Hermione’s jaw drops as she emphatically denies doing any such thing. “I would remember something like that, Mum. There’s just no way. End of.”

“I still have the letter, Hermione, darling. You most definitely did.” Helen is chuckling a little, squeezing Hermione’s hand in hers. “Would you like me to fetch it?”

“No!” Hermione nearly jumps out of her skin, feeling mutinous. “Stop joking, mum. You’re probably remembering incorrectly. I probably said I would marry Neville or Harry or something else equally juvenile.”

Helen merely clucks her tongue, still grinning, still holding her hand; and Hermione allows herself to relax and be pampered (regardless of the ache in her scalp). This . . . female comradery is something she had secretly wanted and envied during the Yule Ball. Lavendar and Pavarti had retreated to the Ravenclaw dorms to prepare with Padma, leaving Hermione alone. She had managed to fix her hair and light make up (after practicing several times the week before) by herself but had coveted the giggling and friendly joshing she could hear just beyond her closed dorm room.

Sarah mumbles around several pins in her mouth, “If they do get married, you should frame the letter as a wedding gift.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, earning a light tap on her shoulder from her cousin. “He just ended his engagement. This is only a date. We’re not getting married.”

Aunt Meggie settles near Helen. “That’s right, my love. You’re still quite young. No need to rush.”

Pulling the pins out of her mouth, Sarah laughs. “Says the woman who couldn’t stop talking about how adorable their babies would be.”

“Well, they would be.” Aunt Meggie flushes, crossing her arms mulishly. “Any child of Nee-Nee’s will undoubtably be absolutely cherubic. Intelligent too, I’d wager.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything, just smiles and closes her eyes, relishing the sounds of her family and the love they always bring with them. Sarah’s fingers are precise but gentle as they run through her strands, coaxing the curls into some unknown order while massaging portions of her hair with a diffuser. Her mum and aunt are talking in low tones that hum beneath the roar of the hair dryer. It makes Hermione sleepy, bursts of color forming beneath her eyelids as she imagines what delights tonight might hold.

She again thinks of where they may be going and immediately panics when she realizes it might have been a mistake to assume the restaurant is muggle. What if he expects her in dress robes? She opens her eyes to view her quaking knees peeking from the rucked hem of her dressing gown. All this week, it hasn’t occurred to her to ask him because she had wanted to be surprised.

Now, she wonders if ignorance had been the best approach.

“Stop.” Sarah says as she tugs on Hermione’s hair. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.” A pause, then. “And _be still_ before I burn your neck like you burned your arm.”

Hermione blows out a breath and allows her feet to settle. “Sorry. And thank you . . . for doing this . . . being here.” 

Aunt Meggie reaches out to pat her on the thigh. “No need for thanks or apology, dear. It’s natural to be nervous.” Her eyes fall to Hermione’s arm. “Forgive me, darling, but . . . are you still wearing a bandage? Surely the burn must have scarred over by now.”

As Hermione stares at her aunt, frozen, Helen breaks in calmly. “She had a bit of infection for a while and it slowed the healing.” 

Picking up the story, Hermione nods. “The scarring is . . . well, really ugly. I don’t want anyone to see.”

Sarah gathers Hermione’s hair in her hands, twisting and molding. “Have you thought of visiting a surgeon about reconstruction? They can take skin from your arse and graft it onto your arm.”

“I’ll look into it.” She won’t.

They talk of family things – Uncle John’s molluscum, Baker’s upcoming championship amateur football game, Nana’s latest Alzheimer’s related wandering, Richard’s current auto project, and Oslo’s recent partnership with a well-known herbalist, Rosemary Gladstone, on some top-secret venture. 

Aunt Meggie says it’s probably something to do with marijuana. Helen smacks her and laughs before countering it might be something to do with psychedelic mushrooms.

Hermione and Sarah both give long-suffering sighs. 

Eventually, Hermione’s hair is done, twisted, tucked and secured into some sort of up do that Hermione can’t see yet. That done, Sarah pulls up a footstool Hermione uses to reach her topmost bookshelves to sit before her, a tube of liquid foundation in hand. “Now, let’s do up this lovely face of yours. We’re keeping it natural right?”

Nodding, Hermione chuckles when her mother and aunt both agree emphatically and vocally. Draco usually sees her bare faced. She doesn’t want to look like a completely different person when he already likes her as she is. (That and Hermione just doesn’t enjoy having a lot of gunk on her face).

As Sarah begins to work, she murmurs, “I think we’ll stick to neutral colors for your eye shadow . . . a little eyeliner and mascara. Nothing too heavy, but your lips . . . that’s where we want the sparkle.”

Aunt Meggie begins to bounce like a toddler, her hands pressed together in an attitude of prayer. “Oh dear! Do you think he’ll kiss you tonight?” Helen glares at her sister-in-law before turning her attention to Hermione. She tries not to blush as she answers that she’ll just have to wait and see.

Although, she’s hoping he will. Or maybe she will kiss him . . .

The makeup doesn’t take long to apply, and soon enough Sarah is sitting back with a proud grin even as her hands deftly begin restoring all of the jars, trays, cases, brushes, and applicators into the duffle. “Darling, that boy will be able to think of nothing _but_ kissing you when he sees my hard work.”

“It’s true, lovey.” Aunt Meggie gives her air kisses before announcing that she and Sarah should be getting home. “I do believe it’s nearly seven, and _the dragon_ will probably be agitated enough as it is without superfluous family in attendance.” Her expression is excessively fond as she wishes Hermione a good night with a cheeky wink.

Sarah follows with a, “Good luck, Nee-Nee, and call me tomorrow!” She blows a kiss before shuffling out of the room. 

Hermione turns to her mum who holds out the periwinkle dress with an expression of motherly pride. Giving the dress another once over, Hermione takes the dress into her closet to get dressed, a sigh of resignation on her lips.

At least it has long sleeves.

***

Waiting for her daughter’s unveiling, Helen reflects on the butterflies fluttering around her insides. She remembers going to bed early the night of the Yule Ball, the date and time marked on the kitchen wall calendar with a pink circle and highlighter stars. It had been a disappointment that she wouldn’t be able to help Hermione get ready or even see her done up in her dress robes.

She had received wizarding photos from Harry and Ronald and someone named Creevy; but she wasn’t allowed to share them with family, wasn’t able to display them at her practice and brag to all and sundry. That night had underlined much of the muggle parent experience for her.

It is something she had intimated to Oslo during their talk about Iris. Oslo had asked at one point, _“How did you justify that sacrifice to yourself? All those missed mother-daughter bonding moments? Those milestones to womanhood? I . . . can’t imagine not having that with Iris.”_

She had looked at her sister-in-law, Richard’s sister, and answered honestly, _“We decided we would rather sacrifice those moments than sacrifice Hermione’s opportunity to be whole.”_

“Do you need any help, dear?” Helen calls, trying to unravel the complicated emotions pooling like nausea at the base of her throat. She doesn’t know why she’s so anxious. It’s just one date. Regardless of Hermione’s childhood prediction, the seeming acceptance of the family and Richard’s certainty. No one is getting married right now or anytime soon.

She isn’t ready to say good-bye to her little girl just yet, not again.

Hermione doesn’t answer in words, just steps out of the closet in her dress and silver halo strap kitten heel sandals. The dress is modest with a scoop neck and long sleeves, but the material clings to her shape and the hemline is a bold cut across her thighs. Her hair is twisted and tucked back at the nape of her neck in a delicately elegant chignon with perfect corkscrew curls artlessly framing her lovely face as well as the line of her neck.

She is every inch a woman, and Helen can barely believe (again) this vision is her baby. _Thank God, I get to see her like this . . ._

“Do I look alright?” Hermione has stepped in front of the mirror, twisting this way and that, worrying that the skirt is too short, that her hair is too much, that she should have thought to get a fresh pedicure. Her toenails are orange.

Helen can’t stop the wide-if-tremulous smile from sculpting over her lips. She presses a hand to her chest and brokenly says, “You’re so beautiful, love.”

“Mum, are you crying?” Hermione’s voice is half-incredulous, half-concerned, a small laugh wreathing the words. Her daughter’s arms are warm as they fold her into floral scented lace and softness even as hot tears slide down her cheeks. Hands rub at her back, up and down. Helen holds on because she suddenly knows: _this isn’t just a date_. 

Helen had been there when Hermione left for her date with Quintus a small eternity ago. Where today Hermione’s eyes are glowing with excited anticipation, then she had been full of an apprehensive kind of reserve. It is obvious to her now: _Hermione is in love_.

“I just can’t believe you’re so grown up already, love. It seems like yesterday you were just a tiny thing, asleep in my arms, then I blinked and here you are – strong, fierce, brilliant, and lovely. I couldn’t be more proud of you, baby girl.”

“Mum . . . “ 

A sound from downstairs has them both looking toward the door before Richard’s voice calls, “Hermione! There’s a bloke here who claims you’ve agreed to some sort of assignation. He comes bearing mutilated plant material. Shall I tell him to begone?” A pause, then. “He’s rolling his eyes quite enthusiastically. It reminds of me of _The Exorcist_.”

Sniffling loudly, Helen chafes Hermione’s shoulders before ordering her downstairs and muttering about loveable if idiotic husbands while wiping at her cheeks. Hermione kisses her and whispers a soft, _I love you,_ before giving a dazzling smile, grabbing a silver clutch from her dresser and making her way to the staircase. 

Helen isn’t far behind.

As they descend, Helen doesn’t watch Hermione but locks her eyes on Draco (who looks dashing in a navy five-piece suit with an orange silk tie). He is talking to Richard, a reasonable bouquet of sunflowers and delphinium wrapped in burlap cradled in one arm, then his eyes shift and his entire being _stops_. 

Helen pauses, watching as her daughter’s eyes catch on Draco’s. Her heart swells painfully in her chest. Draco is looking at Hermione as if she is his world. _He really does love her too._ Helen’s eyes prick again, her vision blurs and she wipes at her eyes forcefully. She doesn’t want to miss a second.

Richard is taking pictures, and Helen gives a small, quiet laugh wondering if they are – perhaps – being a little over enthusiastic. Then, she sees them standing next to each other, and all she can see is her daughter’s smile and the joy that shines from her eyes into Draco’s, reflecting back at her. It’s as if they are the only two people in the room.

“Disgusting aren’t they.” Richard mutters to her softly, a large grin on his face as he takes another photo. Draco gives Hermione the flowers, and she blushes, taking them and telling him she has been wondering how he had deduced her favorite flower.

“Utterly.” Helen says, smiling at her husband, winding her arm around his. 

“Won’t say ‘I told you so’.”

“Probably for the best.” The tight knot of uncertainty loosens and unfurls, turning into something soft and fuzzy resembling . . . anticipation. “Did you tell him to call you Father-in-law yet?”

Richard grins, “Not just yet. It’s just the first date, after all. Don’t want to run the boy off.”

Helen hides a laugh as she offers to put the flowers in a vase – with a promise to keep the burlap for Hermione’s scrapbook, kissing the kids’ cheeks (much to Draco’s surprise and pleasure) and wish them a good night. She steps out on the porch as they begin walking away to the apparition point, pressing her fingertips to her lips when she spies Draco taking Hermione’s hand and weaving their fingers together. In response, Hermione walks closer to him, their shadows gradually becoming one.

***

Draco can’t keep his eyes off of her much less his hands now that he’s _allowed._ When she had stepped down from the stairs at her house, he had been speechless. He already thought she is gorgeous, but – in that moment – he had been stunned speechless by the sheer loveliness of her. The feeling had been reminiscent of his shock at seeing her at the Yule Ball not so many years ago.

 _That fucking dress_ – where her Yule dress robes had been girlish and whimsical, this dress is adult and sensual. The lace is cool and textured against this palm where it sits at the small of her back, the fabric underneath a mere hint of satin to tease. It slinks against her skin with every alluring sway of her hips, tempting with the prospect of pulling her closer so that he can feel her even more fully against him. 

The cut is fitted, falling over her curves and hugging them lovingly, inspiring a desire in him to unwrap her, worship the landscape of her. The hemline frames her bare legs perfectly, making them look endlessly long and pronouncing their shapely lines to the silver heels and orange tipped toes. He wants them draped around his waist, wants those heels digging into his back, wants to touch every inch of them and bite into the round of her inner thighs.

If he could change one thing, however, it would be the long sleeves. Hopefully, she will not have to worry about coverage anymore sooner rather than later.

Shaking his head, he forces himself to focus on her face, attempting to resist the impulse to follow the sculpted curls framing her cheeks to the elegant line of her neck. He tells her how beautiful she is, and in true Hermione fashion, she runs a hand down her side and says that it’s all due to her cousin’s efforts.

He stops, brings her close and tilts her head up to him with two fingers, sweeping his thumb across the edge of her jaw. “I said, _you_ are beautiful.”

Her eyes widen and her skin reddens, comprehending what he is trying to get through her stubborn insecurity. She blinks then trips over a thank you. He smiles and resolves not to kiss her even though everything in him is clamoring to. It will – no doubt – be an epic inner battle all night; but he’s up to it for the rewards that will come later.

They apparate to the restaurant, register their reservation (despite the doubtful look the host shoots him), and are seated in a private alcove with a view of the small dance area on one side and the London skyline on the other. The ambient light of candle glow, lights her features in a way that makes him think of tumbled curls and disturbed bed sheets.

Her eyes glitter as she talks, his attention drawn to her lips over and over again and not only because of her interesting conversation. They had both opted to order non-alcoholic beverages so there is no other explanation for the pleasant humming in his blood than the strong affection he has for her. They talk of everything and anything, steering clear of work subjects per Draco’s written instruction; and even with this restriction, they never fall into awkwardness. 

Even when he flirts with her outrageously she gives right back, seducing him further with her flushed cheeks and fiery eyes. He loves that he can coax these responses from her with just a look, loves that her blushes are not a symptom of shyness but of pleasure for his attention and focus on her.

Truly, all Gryffindor male-types are complete and total morons to have treated her as anything less than a full-blooded woman. _No matter_ , he thinks viciously, _their loss is my gain._

When their dinner arrives, they are holding hands across the table and chuckling over a story Draco is disclosing about second year and some hijinks he had lead Vincent and Gregory into involving Mrs. Norris and Peeves. 

They eat, and he finds himself utterly enchanted observing her when she tastes something to her liking – her eyes closing as she humms in a low moan. He mentally adds ‘find ways to get Hermione to make that sound’ to his internal mission in life (which is defined as, “Hermione’s happiness”). 

When she sets her fork and knife down, she turns her attention to the band playing something soft, slow and jazzy. He grins and removes his napkin from his lap, saying. “You know, I never did get to dance with you at the Yule Ball.” She watches him with a gravity he feels like a flock of butterflies swirling against his skin, and he stands, offering a hand, “Will you dance with me tonight, Granger?”

“I would love to, Malfoy.” She speaks softly, her voice like a caress. “But, I warn you, I’m not a great dancer.”

“You did well at the Ball.”

“Well, I had been practicing for weeks back then.”

“Never fear, darling. I’m skilled enough for the two of us.” He smirks at her nonplused look, taking her into his arms and coaxing her hands where he wants them. “I know how difficult it is for you to give up control, but just follow me.”

There are only two other couples dancing, and they are quite a bit older than the two of them. Once she surrenders, Draco is able to lead Hermione effortlessly in a graceful and _correct_ waltz. They travel the perimeter, around the other couples, moving almost as if they have danced together their entire lives. There is a connection there that is strong and real, pulling them together closer and closer until her body nearly rests against his. 

“I don’t kiss on the first date.” He announces as she returns to him after a spin. 

“Oh? Is that the general rule?” She tries to mask it, but her disappointment is written plainly on her face, the way she purses her lips. He knows she’s heard enough rumors about his sexual prowess. They had even discussed it sometime ago.

“No. It’s a rule applied only to this first date with you.” Her flinch is light. He doesn’t allow her to pull away. “You see, I fully intend to kiss you on our second date.” He grins down at her. “I’m hoping you want to kiss me enough to also want that second date.”

She seems momentarily taken aback by his honesty and then a spark ignites in her eyes, and she raises her chin at a stubborn angle. “And what if I said I want your kiss enough that I would like one now _and_ a second date?"

Sweet Salazar, how he loves her. “I’m afraid that, though I am tempted, I cannot betray my rule. You see, I am not accustomed to denying myself anything; and as I will be leaving soon on business, I know I will go mad from the separation should I kiss you tonight with the knowledge I won’t be able to do it again till my return.”

Her soft curves press into him, utterly inappropriate for the venue; but he doesn’t really care. “You’re leaving?”

He steers them around the floor though they have ceased to truly waltz and now glide and sway in a sensual rhythm. “Tomorrow evening. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone – a month, at least.” She scrapes her bottom lip with her teeth and his abdominal muscles clench. “I’m breaking my own rule about talking about work but . . . . There’s a special project that is moving into the testing phase. Unfortunately, my colleagues that helped formulate the potion are unable to travel to England as easily as I am able to travel to them.”

She sighs and lays her head on his chest as they continue to dance. “And you want to be there for the brewing process.”

He buries his nose in her hair, breathing her in. “I need to be there. This project is of . . . personal significance.”

“Okay.” She smiles up at him with heavy eyelids and pride shining from her. “But you owe me that kiss and second date as soon as you get home.” He bends to her ear and murmurs that he’ll be happy to pay the debt before pressing his lips to her pulse, tasting the heat of her skin, the salt of her life. She trembles and leans into him more heavily. “Will you write?”

“Write, call on the mobile.”

She nods and turns her face into his shoulder as they continue to dance, comfortable in silence. He relishes the excuse to hold her; and they don’t leave until the band stops playing.

***

September 19, 2000

While Hermione was attending Hogwarts, every birthday began with Hermione waking to a small pile of gifts from her parents, aunts and uncles, and grand-parents arranged on her bureau. She found out later that her parents had arranged the delivery with Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster in advance of her first year. 

For six years, this is how her birthdays would begin, and it became a well-loved tradition, with Hermione opening her gifts quietly before her roommates rose for the day then writing ‘thank you’ letters to her family. As Voldemort gained more power and war became imminent instead of some distant nightmare, these predictable little rituals were a steadying comfort, reminding Hermione of why she was so prepared to fight.

After obliviating her parents, Hermione had been too busy and scared hunting horcruxes and dodging Death Eaters to care much about turning eighteen. The end of the war did not bring a renewed interest in celebrating; and so, when Hermione wakes on her twenty-first birthday, she treats it like any other day (it’s also another Tuesday without Draco which makes it even less festive). 

For a moment, she lays in bed and tries to remember the exact shade of his hair, the way his hand fit against the small of her back, the warmth of him pressed into her side, the sound of his heartbeat just beneath her ear as she falls asleep. 

Closing her eyes, she thinks back to their date over a week ago and the swirling anticipation she had felt when he walked her to her house. 

_Their hands had been like magnets all night, clasping together at every opportunity, and she had been reluctant to let go even at the late hour. If she had read him correctly, he was of a similar mind, his eyes dark and piercing as they stood poised to say their ‘good night’s._

_Knowing they would be separated so soon after coming together, she whispered that he should come in for a cuppa. He told her he couldn’t decline such a sweet invitation._

Her skin prickles when she recalls the growling timbre of his voice, low and deep and shuddering straight into her core.

That voice has become achingly familiar, purring into her ear every night of his absence as they talk of the day’s events, softly murmuring their mutual yearning, whispering of future dates, touches, . . . kisses.

It has actually shocked her how utterly intrinsic his presence had become in her everyday life. So much so she has become nearly _dependent_ on every letter and phone call to get through the days with a smile and an optimistic mindset. Even when she is traveling from family to family, she searches the skyline for an incoming owl. She’s actually somewhat alarmed at the level of attachment she feels, the physical _need_ to see him, be near him isn’t something she’s ever believed herself capable of.

Sighing with a full body stretch, she remembers the last moments they were together.

_She had warned him of the need for quiet as her parents were upstairs sleeping; and somehow the prospect of being caught filled their interactions with a mischievous fire rather than caution. They stumbled around each other in the kitchen, whispering their laughter and moving with an uncharacteristic clumsiness._

_As she shut off the kettle (before it could whistle), Draco had stepped up close behind her, palming her hips, his breath on her neck as he nuzzled her hair. She had leaned back slightly, accepting his attention, luxuriating in it._

_Knowing he wouldn’t kiss her (and she wouldn’t kiss him out of respect for his wishes) seemed to heighten every touch. She could feel the charge coursing through her, tingling along her skin and curling her bare toes into the linoleum._

_She wasn’t accustomed to feeling like this or being treated this way. Her only real past relationship had been with Ron and – barring a few snogging sessions and light petting – their romantic connection had quite resembled their platonic one; and considering that, she thought that she should perhaps be shocked or uncomfortable or afraid with how freely Malfoy touched and handled her._

_But she wasn’t. Actually, there was something about the way his hands would – at first – settle lightly, tentatively before pressing more firmly into her. As if he were asking permission. As if he were letting her know – as he did that day in the rain –_ I’m here. I have you. I’ll protect you. Let me take care of you.

 _It made her feel safe, cherished, and (perversely) in control._

_She greedily wanted more._

_Once the tea service was settled, he took the tray from her and carried it into the main room. There they sat close on the sofa in the dark, drinking their tea, whispering about their walk along the Thames after dinner and his introduction to the London Eye._

_Eventually, the tea ran out and Hermione had shifted to laying between Malfoy’s legs, stretched out on the sofa, her head resting on his chest as one of his hands traced her spine. There, she was lulled by the sound of his heartbeat and the light tickle of his trailing touch. Even as she hung between wakefulness and sleep, she played with his free hand, her fingers moving in and out between his, her fingertips tracing the knobs of his knuckles. She was especially enamored with the feel of his callouses and the cut of his nails against her skin to his great, rumbling amusement._

_The intimacy of the moment was everything she had ever wanted (even without a kiss). It wasn’t long before she had fallen asleep snuggled into his arms. She awakened alone and unreasonably bereft._

Sighing again, Hermione sits up, rubs a hand over her eyes. “Happy Birthday to me,” she says quietly before she registers a bright green envelope with silver edging standing against a stack of books on her desk. Her name is emblazoned – also in silver – across the green in an arrogantly ornate calligraphy.

_Groggy and rumpled in her dress and updo, her mum had offered her a full English breakfast and a cup of tea along with a devious little smirk that told Hermione her mother knew exactly how she had fallen asleep the night before._

_“You saw Draco?” Hermione didn’t want to beat around the bush._

_Helen snickered lightly, taking the space next to her. “Yes, I woke him around four . . . it’s half eight just now. He was very apologetic about not waking you; but he had to get going, said he had a portkey to catch in a few hours.”_

_“Oh.” She rubbed feeling into her cheeks and tried not to be sad about not having a few more minutes to wish him ‘safe journey’ or ‘have fun’ or even just ‘see you when you get back’._

_“He kissed your forehead.” Her mother’s face was the very picture of insufferable. “It was_ adorable. _”_

_For an insane second, Hermione contemplated the possibility that this was her dad polyjuiced as her mum. “Gallant.”_

_Helen leaned heavily against Hermione’s side, head lowering to a lace-covered shoulder as she cut into one of Hermione’s grilled tomatoes. “I take it the date went well?”_

_“It was . . . “ Hermione sighs, “_ magical. _” She aimed a crooked grin at her dad who was settling down into an armchair. “We decided to have another date when he gets back.”_

_Helen picked at the pins still stuck in Hermione’s hair and failing their job in restraining the mass. “That’s splendid, dear. Your father already has the wedding invitations picked out and drafted.”_

_Hermione squawked indignantly and chucked a pillow at her dad who was screaming ‘TRAITOR’ at her mum. Moments later the Grangers were engaged in a pillow/tickle fight the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Hermione was a pre-teen._

_Vases fell, furniture was moved, old pillows were ripped, stuffing was flying through the air and skin was slapped (accidentally of course), but in the end, the three were laughing, breathless, and sprawled haphazardly over the couch._

_“So,” Richard began through gasps, “when can we expect the ol’ boy to return?”_

_Hermione giggled and snorted. “He said he’ll be at least a month.”_

_Her mum’s arm settled around her shoulders. “Are you going to be all right, love?”_

_“Of course, . . . it was just one date, and we haven’t discussed . . . exclusivity or what we are.” Even to her, it sounded weak._

_Helen kissed the side of her head and offered, “Before he left, Draco gave me something to pass on to you. However, he told me to wait until your birthday.”_

_Hermione sat up straight. “He got me a birthday present? After I told him over and over I don’t celebrate?”_

_“Are you sure you don’t want a party, sweetheart?” Her dad reached over to pat her knee. “I was going to put a huge ‘1’ candle on the cake.”_

_“No, and I’m turning_ twenty- _one_ , _Dad.” Hermione was pretty sure her father already knew this, but it bore repeating if not._

_“I know, darling, but a man can dream.” He grinned as he took up Hermione’s breakfast plate, shoveling the beans into his mouth._

_Helen smacked him in the thigh. “He asked me to send him a picture of your face after you open it.”_

She rises, puts her feet on the floor and assimilates the last year into her musculature, her grey matter, her spirit. So much has changed, so many wounds have healed, so many discoveries have been made. Professional discoveries. Personal ones. She should be tired and done, but after all she is excited and _READY_. With capitals because the feeling is that strong.

As she takes up the envelope and tests it’s weight, she wonders if Draco feels the same way then realizes that she _knows he does._

This isn’t how it was with Ron. Then, it had been jealousy and questioning every word and deed and signal. Then, it had been explosive in a destructive way, cutting her down to build him up and stomping him into the dirt so that she might feel even a small measure of respect. She hadn’t realized just how stressed and miserable she actually was.

Now . . . with Draco, it’s new and shaky, she knows; but she’s sure of him. He doesn’t shy from showing her with the affection and attention she (secretly) craves; but he also acknowledges her as an equal. They’re able to talk about work without feeling bored or overshadowed as well as other complicated things. They can debate about various subjects, sometimes passionately, always respectfully. When he needs it, he asks her for advice and _takes it_ rather than questioning or dismissing her; and she is comfortable enough to do the same. Thus far, he’s been unerringly honest – almost excessively so; and . . . and she _knows_ he desires her. He’s made that perfectly clear in multiple ways that intrigue and thrill her. 

She feels secure, even with the distance between them; and she instinctively understands that Draco is on the same page of the same novel with her.

Setting the envelope gently on her bed, she sets about getting ready for the day. She has no appointments, but she has plans to meet the boys, Ginny and Aria for lunch. They don’t know yet that she is dating Malfoy; but she plans on dropping the news today. Then, maybe a visit to Draco’s house to introduce herself to Nott and Zabini . . .

Her evening will be dominated by N.E.W.T.s revision. 

Dressed and hygienic, she picks up the envelope from Draco and runs downstairs, calling for Helen to get the camera. Her parents are in the kitchen having breakfast and taking their tea and coffee donned in scrubs. 

“Happy Birthday, love.” Richard says as she kisses his cheek. Helen is right behind, opening her arms to fold Hermione in. 

“I guess you’re ready to find out what Draco gave you.”

Hermione slips her thumbnail beneath the sealed flap in warning. Helen, laughing, runs to get the camera.

Minutes later, Hermione is seated at the table, tearing into the envelop with a letter opener and pulling out a bit of parchment.

_My Dearest Granger,_

_By the time you get this, I will have been away for a little over a half-month. I’m sorry I’m not there for your birthday; however, I think you will forgive me when you see your gift._

_As I told you in the restaurant, I very much want a second date with you. Actually, I am desperately hoping you will accompany me to a very specific concert (whichever comes first)._

_Your ticket is inside the envelope._

_I look forward to seeing (and kissing) you upon my return._

_Yours,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_P.S. Happy Birthday, love._

Her heart skips a beat when she reads the last word though she knows it’s just a silly nothing affectation. It’s entirely too early for . . . _that_ sort of confession. Right?

She bites her lip, confused about the protocol of feeling and saying . . .

“Well? What is it, darling?” This from her dad who is watching her with warm, eager eyes. Meanwhile, her mother is shifting about the room, clicking away at the camera shutter.

“A concert ticket . . . “ she reaches in to find the rectangular bits of laminate card stock and stares at the words printed there dumbly, barely comprehending as she squeaks, “November . . . _Madonna_.”

***

Later that night, Hermione grins sharply as she places three photos in an envelope – one of her climbing on a dining room chair; a second in which she is dancing on the dining room table while her dad laughs in the back ground; and a third, close up of her face, lips puckered and blowing him a kiss. In each picture her hair is a blurred riot around her head, like a lion’s mane. 

She also folds a long letter, filled with the events of the day from the unveiling of his gift to her luncheon with her friends (and their reaction to Hermione dating Malfoy – mostly smug and a round of ‘I told you so’s with some curiosity about his kissing skills (Ginny), a lot of complaints about the oncoming ‘eye fucking’ and worse (Ron and Harry), and something about cashing in (Aria)). 

The visit to Draco’s house is a bit white-washed. She doesn’t write about Zabini telling her “Mudbloods aren’t allowed” before slamming the door in her face. She does tell him that Theo was lovely, very welcoming and interested in knowing how they ended up being such great friends, and she rather likes him. She doesn’t tell him Zabini glared at her the entire time or that Theo told her of how Draco had warned Zabini before leaving that he wouldn’t tolerate prejudice against Muggles or Muggleborns (particularly the Grangers) in his house or presence. She doesn’t tell him that she knows he and Zabini have been exchanging a fierce correspondence about the subject.

The last few paragraphs are about her correspondence to the Governors, the new clients she’s signed, how strange it is that Aunt Oslo has been so unavailable lately when she calls to speak about and to Iris. Then there are the soft words of her heart – of thanks for the ticket let alone simply remembering her birthday, of missing him and the anticipation of his return (though she tries her best not to sound too needy).

When it comes to the closing, she debates with herself for – probably – longer than necessary, finally settling on,

_Love,_

_Hermione_

***

November 29, 2000 

The night of their scheduled second date, Draco is still unreturned – an entire month and three weeks overdue. He had owled that morning stating that he would be running late and she should set out to the venue without him. She had scowled at the missive, her hand itching to smack him and her tongue burning with an unspoken, “Bloody prat.”

It’s unfair, to blame him, . . . _maybe_ ; but she trusts that whatever he is doing, wherever he is doing it, he is doing it for the right reasons. She just wishes she knew a little more about it than _nothing_. It has become rather unsettling, this secret that is keeping them apart.

Not that she would ever begrudge him his work. One of the many things she appreciates about him is his ambition and the respect he has for hers. Really, she has no reason for being so waspish when she has this lovely gift to take advantage of and a concert to attend, one of her favorite artists to see.

Doesn’t stop her from charging downstairs and posing that maybe she shouldn’t go if Draco isn’t going to be there. Going to a concern by oneself is . . . well, it’s not very appealing. Her dad immediately tells her she _needs_ to go because _Madonna_ while her mum gives her a _look_ and says it would be quite rude of her to stand him up.

That quintessential _Mum_ look has her closing her eyes and breathing. Today isn’t the first of Draco’s absence that has seen her unaccountably frustrated and _insufferable._ Honestly, every passing hour sees her diving more deeply into a quagmire of conflicting thoughts and emotions boiling down to base _anxiety._

Hermione is not only a woman of words, she is a woman of organization, categorization, and _order_. She doesn’t like mysteries or puzzles unsolved. She doesn’t like _not knowing_ or being forced to _guess_. Especially after the war, after the horcrux hunt when all they had to guide them were riddles in the form of children’s stories.

And – after coming down from the high of that one date with Draco – she realized she had no idea what they are doing; what Draco’s expectations are; what _her_ expectations are. Because one moment he was off-limits and the next he was asking her out on a date; and she never questioned it.

Yes, he had told her – quite baldly – that he had been thinking of her in a more than friendly way for months before the engagement had been broken, and yes, she desires him just as much; however, _one date_ is not indicative of commitment. It’s not a promise or a declaration of something stable and lasting.

And it’s been more than two months since they’ve been in the same place at the same time. He could have met someone else or decided she isn’t what he wants. She wouldn’t blame him if he had, it’s just . . . she isn’t quite sure what he was attracted to in the first place. Feeding into her insecurities, her visits to Draco’s house are always rife with Zabini’s insults and baiting. He’s even told her that Draco is probably just playing with her, seeing how far he can build her up before knocking her down a few pegs.

She doesn’t believe that. She knows Draco has changed into an honorable man who _cares_ ; however, Zabini’s words strike into the very heart of her unrest: the fear of loss.

In an emergency session with Dr. Ufuoma, Hermione unloaded how there is a part of her still unbelieving that Draco is available to be with her. She keeps waiting for something to happen – for Greengrass to reinstate the contract, for Mrs. Malfoy to show up and hex her, for Draco to write that he’s never coming home and he would prefer they remain just friends, for Voldemort to pop out of the bushes with a “Surprise, Mudblood filth! _Avada Kadavra.”_

Dr. Ufuoma had reminded her about the difference between irrational and rational fears, asking her to categorize the scenarios she had just offered. 

Hermione _knows_ she is being irrational. She _knows_ Greengrass cannot unilaterally reinstate the contract. She _knows_ Mrs. Malfoy will not hex her (though she _might_ appear at Hermione’s house). She _knows_ Draco will return home (though he _might_ choose to dial back their . . . _whatever_ ); and she _knows_ Voldemort is dead.

But . . . she still worries. Because she’s wanted this for so long, and it feels like one wrong move will make it all disappear.

_Deep, black eyes seemed to peer into her soul. “You deserve good things in your life, Hermione.”_

_Perplexed, she had squinted at the older woman. “I have good things . . . my parents, my friends, the consulting business (which is growing by leaps and bounds), and my chance to sit for my N.E.W.T.s.”_

_Dr. Ufuoma had simply smiled, eyes glittering in an eerily similar way to Dumbledore’s. “Yes. And you deserve more. You deserve good things in your life. You deserve to be a young woman. You deserve to relax. You deserve to live. You deserve to have romance. To love and be loved.”_

_Hermione could only stare, unaware of the fat, rolling tears wetting her face._

_The therapist reached out, laying a calming hand on Hermione’s fingers – fingers that had been scratching at the unhealed cuts marking her with hate. “You deserve to be happy.”_

Even just remembering those words has her batting her eyelashes against the prickle of tears. She’s truly become such a doddering watering pot though the panic attacks have been a rare thing for the last few months (thankfully). 

As she climbs the stairs again, she decides what she is going to wear, how to style her hair, which pieces of jewelry she wants to dig out of her vanity drawers. She thinks about what she’ll say to Draco when she sees him, what she’ll do, what he’ll look like. (Will he have facial hair? Has he been taking care of his teeth? Did he cut his hair? Grown it out? Would he be wearing a suit or something more casual?)

With a whimper, she wonders why she can’t just _relax_ and – as Dr. Ufuoma said – _be happy_ when weeks earlier she had been at peace.

She dresses quickly in a wide collared shirt painted with Madonna’s come-hither face circa 1985 (the sleeves charmed long) and a denim skirt. Her hair, she winds up on top of her head in a wide bun and clips large golden hoops to her ears. A thick orange bracelet and shiny gold belt complete the ensemble which she second guesses about forty times before thinking ‘ _sod it’_ to herself. 

There’s still an hour until she needs to make her way to the train station so she sits and rereads Draco’s letters and imagines him reading them to her.

It is on the twentieth letter that she acknowledges something she’s noticed but dismissed time and again: When Draco writes (and speaks) of the future, he always includes her . . . _We, us, our._ They’ve made plans – for future dates, for travel and business, for spending holidays together and joint visits with friends and family.

_there are many things I want to do with you. Dating is simply the start of – what I hope will be – a natural progression._

She closes her eyes. Those aren’t the words of a capricious man. Nor are they words of unreliable passion. 

_You deserve to be happy._

How does one go about being such a nebulous thing? Hermione remembers being small, of squealing with exhilaration and joy when her mother would say, “Let’s go to the library.” She recalls how the smell of old books and wood polish could make any day a better one. She thinks of the moment she knew she, Harry and Ron had become _best friends_ , the tender blanket of _completion_ that had encompassed and filled the gaping emptiness in her. She experiences again the complicated twist of triumph, relief, bitterness, anguish, and self-hatred that had darkened her soul with the war’s end.

_You deserve good things in your life._

Hermione presses the stack of parchment to her nose, breathing Draco in before blowing her fears out. Here is the memory of screaming at him in her kitchen, her legs the consistency of jello and her heart near beating out of her chest with fear; there are his eyes watching her quietly as he takes Teddy so she can eat her lunch, her throat tight and skin numb. In a flash, he is before her, surrounded by books and gleaming dust motes, the arrogant Prince of Slytherin humbly offering the most articulate apology she has ever received; then the discovery of his vow and standing next to him washing dishes after a dinner ‘date’. 

She hums to herself. That was the first night she had felt physically aware of him.

_You deserve to be a young woman. You deserve to have romance. To love and be loved._

Then their friendship began, and she learned him as an adult, found him to be steadfast and solid, the calm in the midst of her storm. He had proven himself trustworthy and protective, gentle when she wanted him to be and challenging when she needed to be challenged. She had fallen in love without meaning to . . .

Deeply, irrevocably in love. She is pretty sure it’s the forever kind.

And that’s a good thing, right? Regardless of how fast everything precipitated and how scared she is, _love is never wrong._

A squeak of the door hinges, a hand on her shin, the sink and whine of the mattress under another’s weight. “If you don’t want to be late, you’ll need to get going in a few minutes.” Mum’s voice is a soft, nurturing warmth curling into her ear.

She presses the stack of parchment more firmly into her face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“You’re in love.” Her mother states firmly. “It’s normal to feel afraid and –”

“Out of control?” Hermione budges in as her mum finishes, “crazy.”

Finally, Hermione sets Draco’s letters down, looks up at her mother. “You don’t think it’s too soon? Too fast?”

Helen cups Hermione’s cheek, her gaze soft and understanding. “Love is never wrong, Hermione. And it rarely obeys a schedule.”

She sits up, runs her fingers over the coil of her hair, smoothing the escaping strands as best she can. “But . . . but should I tell him? I mean, we’ve only been on one date, and –“

“Your dad would say you’ve been dating for a while now, dear. And though I wasn’t thrilled about it at first, I’m inclined to agree with him.” Her mum grabs her hand, holds it, clasps it. “Whether you tell him now or later is up to you; but don’t wait too long, darling. _You deserve to be happy_.”

“I just don’t understand why I’m so . . . anxious. I’ve known I love him since the birthday party in August.”

“There was no risk back then.” Helen says simply, the words piercing her like bullets. 

_You deserve good things in your life, Hermione._ Dr. Ufuoma had said, and Hermione had responded with a list of the good things she already had, innocuously including Draco in the group of _friends._ Because that’s what he has been for the last six months, and during that time, that’s what she thought he would always be; and with the breaking of the engagement, these feelings . . . this fledgling relationship is now a viable _choice_ with potential consequences. There is the risk of life long happiness as well as eventual heartbreak and misery. She could gain a future or lose her best friend. 

She thinks about how she felt – before she knew of the engagement and after – of the torment of attraction and the heart ache of being unable to express the depth of her ardor. She remembers the cold fire that had consumed her when she asked him to dinner and the yawning hurt of embarrassment and hopelessness when he had told her of his engagement.

But Astoria had made him choose and he had chosen her, Hermione. He had weighed the consequences and taken that risk. For _them._ For _us_. For _our_. 

Her heart flutters as she rediscovers that peaceful certainty she had misplaced.

Standing, Hermione lets go her mum’s hand and steps over to her vanity mirror, looking into her own brown eyes. “ _We_ deserve to be happy.” 

She grabs her wand, slings her beaded bag over her shoulder, kisses Helen’s cheek, and announces she’s going before running down the stairs.

***

The train ride took a half hour. She stood in line for twenty minutes, and Madonna is currently on the second song of the night. 

Hermione is in a state of mild euphoria, letting the music and the lyrics fall over her and dig into her skin. She’s smiling and not minding the heat of bodies or the noise of a thousand voices screaming in excitement and buzzing energy.

Draco hasn’t shown up yet. 

She is about ten feet from the stage and her foot has been stomped on about six times; but there is a thrum of excitement and anticipation that hasn’t ceased since leaving her house, and it has nothing whatever to do with Madonna.

After a rousing rendition of “Express Yourself,” Madonna announces a special request and the first sweet calling notes of the oboe in “Crazy for You” has the audience screaming in delight. Hermione is laughing and clapping when she feels a pricking sort of tickle against her elbow, and she smacks at it imagining a spider.

Instead, her fingers crush the sharp folds of an origami crane, and her mouth is suddenly dry. She’s casting about but the strobe effect of the flashing, colored lights from the show obscure the features of the other attendees. 

Slowing down, she traverses the small space she’s meted out only to have her breath arrest in her throat and her entire body go rigid with some sort of visceral shock when she sees him. 

He’s in a suit, or parts of it – white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up (the outline of his Mark is stark against his skin and white light), crooked tie, belt and slacks. Even in the horrible lighting, she can tell he’s tired, his hair dirty and touseled. He looks as if he hasn’t slept since he left her that morning two months ago.

Similarly still, watching her (always, always watching), his eyes are hard to see in the dark of the auditorium but she has the sense that – despite his obvious fatigue - he is the hunter and she the small game in his sights. Her heart begins to race and her breath staggers. Time slows. She involuntarily parts her lips in anticipation.

_I look forward to seeing (and kissing) you upon my return._

Is this what her friends meant about the eye fucking? How his focused gaze seems to probe into the very heart of her until her womb feels tight and her sex muscles clench with sudden awareness of unnatural emptiness? 

Every inch of her skin is tingling; and she’s – once more – starkly aware of his masculine frame, the cut of his jaw, the size and shape of his hands. She takes calculation of how his planes and angles might fit against her curves, how his strength might feel against her hands.

She’s had a taste of it during their dance. She wants more. 

Sweat breaks out on her forehead, the back of her neck, her armpits, her palms. She can feel the dampness between her legs. Despite her earlier unrest (or maybe because of it), every part of her is screaming for him. She finally knows – without a doubt - he feels the same. He doesn’t need to say anything. Neither does she. 

He takes the three steps between them. She raises on her toes to meet him, steadying herself with hands coming up to lay upon his chest. And then his mouth is on hers and the world with its loud music, crowd of screaming concert-goers, flashing lights and darkness recedes with the roar of blood in her ears and the fireworks breaking behind her closed eyelids. 

There is nothing but him, caressing her lips so carefully and holding her so securely. She presses closer. He deepens the kiss, his hands spanning her back and supporting her neck. Her hands slide up to wrap around his broad shoulders. 

Every atom of her is begging to be closer, to merge, to welcome him inside. His tongue is massaging hers as his hands drift to her bum and he slightly lifts her so their hips are aligned. His lips are so soft – a contrast to his hard body. She can feel the vibration of his moan when one hand falls to circle under his arm and scratch down his strong back. 

Slowly, he begins parting from her – hesitantly, she knows. First, he lowers her till her feet are flat on the ground again, bending over her to keep contact with her lips. She grips the material of his shirt in both hands as his come up to frame her face, thumbs grazing comfortingly over her cheeks while his tongue returns to his mouth and he presses soft, chaste kisses to her lips, her nose, her forehead, just below her chin where the contact causes a bolt of desire that has her arching into him. 

He stays there, his forehead pressing into hers, their breath hot and combined between them. His hands are running up and down her arms while hers remain clutching his shirt. She can’t move beyond that. Doesn’t want to. 

The world begins to creep back in – another song – the keyboard and drums; the shrill whine of the audience; strobe lights that only allow her to see fragments of him at a time. His fingertips glide down the sensitive inside of her forearm, the fingertips light and feathering into her palm as he clasps her hand in his. 

Then he is moving and pulling her along on weakened knees and shaky ankles. She quickens her step to huddle close to him as he shoulders through the crowd like an intent bull. Her heart is lodged in her throat, her brain scrambled in the best way. 

She wants to kiss him again. 

Merlin, she kissed Draco Malfoy. Her eleven/twelve year old self would have kittens. 

Giggling at the mental image, Hermione leans against his side as they break from the concert exit. She feels safe in a way she hasn’t since she was a little girl, and isn’t it something that it is a former bully and Death Eater that could make her so.

The atrium is empty save for a handful of security guards, so she doesn’t mind when Draco guides her against a wall and kisses her again, _hard_ and dirty, as if he can’t bear to be separated from her anymore. 

She knows the feeling as she spears trembling fingers through is hair, applying fingernails to his nape. A growl rumbles in his chest and her every wish at the moment is to vanish their clothes so that she can be closer still.

Again, he takes responsibility for their very public display, weaning himself away with light kisses around her mouth and face. “We . . . need to slow down.”

The world just tilted on its axis . . . Draco Malfoy is acting as the voice of reason between them . . . about them _kissing_ . . . kissing Draco Malfoy. She opens her eyes to (finally) see his and nearly sobs at the picture he makes. His expression is open and trusting and so full of life, her chest hurts with the rare beauty of it.

**_We_ ** _deserve to be happy._

She’s been fighting her feelings for so long, thinking he only saw her as a friend – someone to have fun with and share similar pain with but not _life_ in its fullest incarnation, someone to love and make love with. She knows now he thought the same of her, felt the same struggle; and she doesn’t know what broke the cycle, the stalemate of their feelings; but she’s so so glad he finally had enough because she wants _everything_ with him – the days and the nights, the happiness and sadness, the mundane and the dysfunction, the loud and the quiet, the peace and the anger, the trust and disagreements. She wants a life with him – marriage, children, family and old age. She can see it stretched out before her in a way she could never see with Ron or anyone else, with equal parts fear and eagerness. 

She giggles again, getting ahead of herself but so full of joy she can barely contain it, and before she even realizes she’s speaking, it’s out in a voice wrecked with overwhelming emotion. “I love you.”

He kisses her again. “I missed you so much. You have no idea.”

The concert is still happening behind them, the music is vibrating through the walls and floor; but all she can think about is that he is here and they are together and how badly she wants his mouth again. 

Was this how it always is when you love someone? This all-consuming fire burning away all rational thought until all that is left is _them_? 

Her hands pull him down to her again, devouring his mouth as he pushes her harder against the wall at her back, his thigh between hers, his chest flat against hers, his hands _everywhere._ What had he said during that dance? 

_I know I will go mad from the separation should I kiss you tonight with the knowledge I won’t be able to do it again till my return._

Dear sweet Christ, he wasn’t wrong. She would have gone mad too without _this_ for two months.

They break for air when a security person yells at them to get a room. Hermione uses the opportunity to attack Malfoy’s neck.

He doesn’t stop her, groaning, “Are we going back to the concert or would you rather go home?”

She balks before it occurs to her to ask if he means his place and he shakes his head – “Yours.” 

Love drunk, Hermione points out that she lives with her parents still (as if he’s somehow forgotten), and she’s pretty sure they wouldn’t appreciate her having sex under their roof. She watches, incredulous when his pale skin pinks in a blush as he says, “I wasn’t actually thinking about doing that (tonight).” Just, “Let me bring you home.”

The concert is still going strong, but she has no desire go back in where she can’t really see or hear him. It stings, that he doesn’t _want_ her at this moment when all she wants is to show him how much she loves him. She asks him if she’s done something wrong, and he gives her a very pointed look before kissing her again – gently – and saying he promised her parents to bring her home after the concert. 

She tells him plainly that she’s an adult, and she wants to stay with him (at the risk of sounding clingy – she’s afraid this is just a dream). He smiles and tells her quietly despite the noise erupting around them that, “By some miracle – your parents actually like me, and it’s very important to me that they continue to do so.”

Something in his eyes has her asking why is it so important, and he presses his forehead against hers again, breathing, “Because tomorrow I intend to petition you and your parents to accept my troth to court, and it will minimize the risk of being rejected if I bring you home tonight as promised.”

She knows that courting is basically dating with marriage as end game. There’s a moment, just a sliver of time in which she nearly tells him that the formality is unnecessary and archaic and that she’s perfectly happy just dating to see where things go. Then, she takes in the look in his eyes, the frame of his face and knows: _this is important to him_. He’s already freely given up so much of the pureblood wizarding pomp and ceremony; and he’s learned to move smoothly through Muggle society. She can give him this. 

She clasps herself to him, nuzzling his neck before saying “Okay, bring me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: It's another INTERLUDE. This one is special because it actually takes place during THIS chapter. We will see Theo and Blaise, Helen and Richard, Narcissa and Astoria, as well as Ginny, Harry, Ron, and Aria and POSSIBLY MORE XD (This could all change as I haven't actually written it yet).
> 
> sports cup = jock strap . . . I'm not sure how Brits refer to it. For those of you who don't know what a jock strap is, it's a plastic cup that most male athletes wear under uniform to protect their privates from injury.
> 
> molluscum = "bath warts" -- it's a skin condition similar to warts in that it's caused by a virus and very contageous. You see this sort of thing in small children or people who frequen public baths and swimming pools. My son had it and I spent over a year trying to get rid of it. At its worst, he had over 100 of the warts under his arm.
> 
> Madonna actually DID have a small concert on November 29, 2000 in London at Brixton Academy but she didn't play any of the oldies as it was a promotional thing for the album "Music". The set was only five songs long.
> 
> Also, if you think Hermione mentioning sex so soon after she had her little breakdown is ooc, please see the conversation she had with Draco at his house. She very clearly states that she was gonna go for it when she found the right person ^_~


	14. Interlude IV:  Les Petits Fours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen and Richard have an early breakfast; Blaise is a jackass; Theo is a drama queen; and Oslo is tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O. My. GOD. Thank you everyone who responded to my message. The outpouring of love and support was more than I could handle, and I just want to say THANKYOU and I LOVE YOU ALL. I am still jobless but I've kept up with all my goals, my medication, and communications with my docs. My goal for today - my 40th birthday - was to get this chapter out and I still have one hour and ten minutes to make that happen! 
> 
> I also want to thank Karma Cookie for reading over the like 50th draft of this chapter. Her comments were taken very seriously and I had to edit a shitload more than I thought I did *LOL* 
> 
> Also, please stay tuned AFTER the chapter as I will be putting two cut scenes down there. It just didn't fit in this chapter but I really, really want to share it.
> 
> NOTE: This is not a linear chapter, please pay attention to time stamps.
> 
> WARNINGS: blatant prejudice, violence, PTSD/anxiety, mentions of child abuse and murder.
> 
> Without Further Ado . . . Enjoy!

September 9, 2000 – _Granger residence_

It’s the smell of freshly brewed tea that wakes him (along with the fading warmth on the other side of the bed). The bedside clock says it is only 4:45 in the AM, the still darkness of the room and shadowed corridor just there beyond the bedroom door offered as evidence. 

Richard groans lightly and rubs at an unexpected sore spot just below his hip as he places his feet on the floor and schleps into the hall. He makes note of particularly noisy floorboards even as his brain is cloudy and his vision impeded by rubbing fingers. 

Hermione’s bedroom door is cracked open so he peeks in to see her bed is as her room – neat and uninhabited. There is a shock of fear that sears through his chest for just a moment before he forces himself to calm with palms rubbing at his stubble and slow belly breaths. He knows she’s okay. Helen would have woken him if she wasn’t.

Making his way downstairs, he immediately sees the huddled form of his daughter, asleep on the sofa. She’s bundled into a thin blanket, her make up (smudged as it is) and dress from her date still on and her hair half fallen from its arrangement. Her breathing is even though her nose is buried into the back cushions and her knees are drawn in and up with her hands splayed near her head in an awkward sprawl. Richard merely smiles that Hermione seems to be having a peaceful sleep for once, straightens the blanket around her feet and leans to kiss her forehead. 

She snuffs against the upholstery as if in answer.

The kitchen light is on, the sharp sounds of spoon against cup somehow gentled in this early hour. Multiple bones in his feet creak and crack as he crosses to the main room to find his wife sitting at the dining table, backlit by the kitchen, stirring her fresh tea with one hand and resting her head against the other. She hums a melody so low her voice sometimes sinks into a whisper.

“Twenty-eight years since I first saw you, and you’re still the most beautiful thing in my world.” She gives him a familiar look, equal parts affectionate resignation and pleased reserve. He moves to stand behind her, brackets her body with his arms as he waits for her to look up so that he can kiss her. 

She tastes strongly of black tea with a hint of mint toothpaste; but it isn’t until the small of his back begins to ache that he parts from her. He would have to be gentle with himself the next few days while planting garlic, broad beans, and peas in his little winter garden.

“Good morning, love.” She smiles and pats the place next to her even as she says, “What are you doing up so early?”

“I could ask the same, darling.” He settles into a chair as his wife pours him a cuppa. “I see Hermione arrived home safely.”

Helen’s smile has an evil bent to it as she sips her tea, both hands circling the cup. “I found her and Draco asleep together.” She presses two fingers to her lips before, “Chaste as lambs, of course.”

He fishes her hand away from her mouth, thumb pulsing circles into the thick of her palm. “Of course.” Then, “I certainly hope you took photos.”

She nods as he coaxes her out of her chair and into his lap. “Did I tell you, I found Hermione’s first letter from Hogwarts?” She giggles like a girl when he presses his lips against the tip of her index finger then her pinky. “I couldn’t help myself after asking her if I should . . .”

“Did you now?” Finding himself out of fingers to kiss, he decides to start from the beginning this time, aiming for her thumb. “Preparing for the engagement already?” Richard is far from stupid or blind. As soon as Draco crossed his threshold earlier tonight, he had known the young wizard loved his daughter – probably more than Draco even realized if he realized at all.

He feels the warmth of Helen’s foot slip atop his as he takes up her other hand to bestow a similar affection. “I might just do as Sarah suggested and frame it . . . .” She sighs, eyes misting slightly despite her heartfelt grin. “Do you remember Hermione comparing Draco to Falcor?”

Richard stops in his passionate ministrations, eyes glittering in the dark like playful stars. “Falcor?”

Helen giggles again, shifting to press her back more firmly into his front and resting her head against his shoulder. “From _The Neverending Story.”_

Richard barks out a laugh, scraping a tooth against the pad of her finger. “The dog-headed _dragon_?” Her body is shaking with suppressed laughter as she reclaims her hand and covers his mouth, shushing him. 

“Hush, you. You’ll wake Hermione.”

They subside into the familiar warmth of each other, her body cradled against his as she hums in contentment and he breathes in the hard-won peace of his family. “You said Draco had fallen asleep too?”

“Mmm. Yes. He had mentioned to me a few days ago he has an important business project starting tomo—today. I didn’t want him to be late.”

“And you’re waiting for him to ring and tell you he’s made it home.” It’s not a question. He knows Helen almost as well as he knows himself. Giving her a cuddle, he kisses her temple then takes his tea. 

She huffs into his neck, no doubt relaxing to the rhythm of his hand rubbing up and down her arm. “I’m giving him two hours. He said he was feeling rather energized and wanted to walk.”

“Well, then. Sun should be rising soon enough. Fancy a fry-up, wife?”

They do their best to be quiet. Hermione has been sleeping better of late, but there are still nights when they can hear her calling out for someone to ‘please make it stop!’ Other nights she is so restless, the springs in her bed sound more like nails on a chalkboard. Sometimes, they wake suddenly to the loud thump of her body hitting the floor then scrambling up. They don’t want to disturb her when she’s so still and quiet.

He shifts his chair so that he’s sitting close to her, their elbows often dueling for dominance. It’s not a secret between them how devastated they both had been, knowing how distant they had become as their childless alter egos in Australia, how close they had come to losing everything. In placid times like this, they often felt a mutual desire to touch, renew and savor the intimacy they enjoyed as Richard and Helen. 

Pouring another cup of tea for himself and topping off Helen’s, Richard notes how – similar to how he found her stirring her spoon – Helen absently scrapes the prongs of her fork around the rather full plate of egg, sausage, black pudding, toast and beans. “Something on your mind, love?” Obviously there is. Helen isn’t one to miss out on sleep if she can help it.

She sighs and leans toward him, her body weight attempting to push him off his chair. “I have this feeling that our baby will be leaving us soon.”

To be honest, he has experienced the same since Hermione bounced down the stairs one morning not too long ago, announcing with a glow to her cheeks that Draco had asked her for a date. Richard hadn’t been surprised in the least. He had known for some time that her daughter had fallen in love. He had known even longer that Draco felt something similar for her.

Briefly, he wonders if he would have been so supportive – even enthusiastic – about the match had he not been given the opportunity to know Draco as he had. “It’s what every parent works for and dreads in equal measure.” He remembers the first time Hermione was placed in his arms, how scared and excited he had been, how filled with tenderness and love as the realization of his parental responsibility watched him gravely through blue-gray eyes that would shortly turn brown. “However, I highly doubt Hermione will ever truly leave us, darling.” It’s a rather heavy reminder wrapped in insinuation: Hermione has left them once in the most complete way; and they have all learned rather harshly how fully they love and wish to keep each other.

Helen hums lightly, chewing on the smallest bite of egg. “I wager he’ll buy a ring before the year is out.” He grins when she groans, pushing her plate to the side so that she can throw herself upon the table. “Meggie and Oslo predicted this.”

Alternately rubbing her back and massaging her neck with one hand, Richard muses, “I counter your wager that he’ll buy a ring before he returns from his business trip.”

She peeks up at him. “You believe they will move that fast? Hermione?” Their daughter had issued her opinion on her friends’ engagements and developing families more than once, expressing happiness for their happiness while asserting that there are things she wants to accomplish before entertaining marriage and/or parenthood.

He knows the prospect of Hermione moving out is difficult for Helen. He also knows better than to mollycoddle her. “I think they will move faster than either of them planned to prior to discovering each other.”

His wife snorts, burying her face in her arms and drumming the fingertips of one hand. “Ugh, you and Narcissa.”

He waits patiently, sipping his cooling tea and eating his breakfast, an absent sort of grin painting his mouth content. There is a sharp intake of breath from the main room before a long exhale and the rustling of cloth. Then nothing. He’s about to rise to check, but Helen beats him to it, the lines of her body visible through the cloth of her night dress as she stands in the half-light.

When she returns, he nuzzles her neck, memorizing again the exact scent of her skin. “Narcissa?”

She opens her mouth to explain when the telephone rings once; and once is all the chance it gets to wake Hermione as Helen fairly flies across the few feet to rip the handset from the receiver. “Granger residence. Helen speaking.”

Richard watches even as he drains his cup, even as he starts bringing dishes to the kitchen, even as she mouths _Draco_ , as if he didn’t know. He mouths _You’re adorable_ , tries not to grin too hard when she scowls at him.

Then she turns her back to him. “Did you make it home, dear?” Helen’s voice is thick and soft, slightly muffled.

She’s swaying unconsciously as she holds the phone to her ear though he can hear the very faintest of answers down the line.

She hums sleepily, and he can feel her smile, finds himself smiling too. “Stay on with me until you are inside, please.” She’s such a mother hen though she tries to deny it when anyone calls her on it. It’s one of the many things he loves about her. It’s one of the things that first made him fall in love with her.

“No, she’s still asleep.” Her shoulders relax as she leans against the wall. Of course, Draco would ask about Hermione, Richard chuckles to himself. He would have been surprised if the boy hadn’t. “I’ll wake her in a few hours if she doesn’t on her own.” 

She turns back toward him, a sign the conversation will be winding down. “Have a good trip, love. And – for God’s sake – owl your mother before you leave.” 

A pause, then . . . Helen laughs in a low chuckle before saucily retorting, “Tell her yourself.” A moment later, she is saying good-bye, still chortling.

As she replaces the handset, Richard can’t help but ask, “Told you to proclaim his undying love to Hermione, did he?”

Helen snickers and pushes him lightly. “Told me to tell her he already misses her.”

“Smooth little bugger, isn’t he?” A breath, then, “Narcissa?”

Her arms wrap around him, her mouth a toothy smile beneath nearly shut eyes. “Now? I really had my heart set on going back to bed, my love.”

He snickers, reaching for the light switch, freeing himself from her embrace to take her hand. “I know you had a letter from her earlier in the evening.”

They bypass the slumbering Hermione and creep up the stairs – illuminated by sunlight just peeking over the horizon – to their bed. “Mmmm,” Helen moans as she wiggles into the perfect position, eyes tightly closed and face relaxing near instantly. “She wants to meet with Hermione.”

That’s . . . . unexpected. “At the manor?” If so, Richard would have to protest. He doesn’t want his little girl anywhere near that place ever again. He’s fairly certain would agree not to mention Hermione herself. 

“Uh uh,” Helen’s voice is thick and wispy. He trails his fingers along the slope of her cheeks. “Said would meet her here . . . . Wanted me to aasskkk.”

He settles in next to her, gathers her so that her back is aligned with his chest, his knees behind hers, supporting. “You believe she wants to clear the air with her future daughter-in-law.”

There is a tiny impact of skin of skin when Helen smacks her palm against his arm. “Shush you.” She sighs, wiggling into his body. “Told her to ask Hermione. ‘M not . . . mess . . nger.”

She’s asleep a moment later, and Richard figures he had better save any lingering questions for after she wakes for the day in – he squints at the clock – about an hour. Unfortunately, sleep eludes him as he watches light streaming through the window grow stronger, wondering if he should start putting together a budget for the wedding.

***

Various dates in August to September 2000 – _Italy, Nott Cabana, mentions of Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor, and Draco’s residence_

_Blaise and Draco are not life-long mates, not like Theo and Draco who had been close since they were in nappies. Blaise didn’t have the advantage of being counted a member of the Sacred Twenty-eight though his mother was a daughter of the house of Shafiq; and despite Mrs. Zabini’s long-standing popularity among the pureblood elite both in England and the continent, her third husband had been found to be a half-blood_ bastardo _– an unforgivable oversight according to their society. (Blaise had always blamed himself for not only failing to reveal the cur before his mother’s nuptials, but also – formerly – counting the imitation wizard as his favorite step-father). Before Hogwarts, the Zabini family had been found lacking by the Malfoy patriarch and the youngest Zabini duly judged an unsuitable playmate for the precious Malfoy heir._

_It was on the Hogwarts Express that Blaise first met the dour-faced Malfoy heir and determined to befriend him. The Malfoys were powerful, influential, and wealthy to the point money (and everything associated with it) was practically meaningless to them. Most other purebloods would have given anything (including limbs and children) to legitimately associate with the family; and – as he stepped, parentless, into the liberal hellmouth of Hogwarts – Draco Malfoy was seen as a viable rung in a most exclusive societal ladder._

_Though his mother had not coached him, Blaise had looked upon Draco in a similar vein. To gain his trust and favor was to – eventually – have the ear of the parental Malfoys; therefore, Blaise wasted no time upon that train. Within the first half of the journey to school, he had gleaned Draco’s location, introduced himself and successfully secured an invitation to weather the rest of the train ride in his cabin._

_That first year, once more intimately acquainted with Draco, Blaise began seeing the other boy as more than a mere stepping stone. The undisputed Prince of Slytherin House was blade smart, viper tongued, and always, always aware of (and prepared to counter) the intentions of his classmates. A real silver snake hiding in the verdant grass. The perfect fit for their House and socio-economic class._

_Had Draco been anything less, Blaise would have demolished him rather than submitted to his rule. Of course, most – if not all – of their peers had fallen all over themselves to secure Draco’s favor; however, Blaise had soon surmised the young Malfoy heir had very little experience making and keeping friends. He seemed to only acknowledge Theo with any sort of open pleasure._

_It was a rather poorly hidden secret among their ilk that the seniors Crabbe and Goyle were bankrolled by Lord Malfoy for the convenience of Vincent and Gregory’s services as Draco’s in-school bodyguards (not that they were actually necessary)._

_Pansy seemed familiar with Draco, though he hadn’t appeared too enamored with her. He was generally polite to Daphne and Millicent and everyone else . . . as long as they didn’t interfere with his studies or machinate against him in some way._

_Blaise had first ingratiated himself to Theo, and with_ his _recommendation, been gifted frequent audience with the infamous Malfoy heir. They had bonded over their similar upbringing, interest in quidditch, and shared ideology as purebloods. Soon enough, Blaise was more than a friendly acquaintance. He became privy of the truth regarding the opening of the Chamber of Secrets in second year straight from Draco and visited Malfoy Manor for the first time in summer following that school year._

_That visit had cemented – in Blaise’s mind – their genuine friendship and brotherhood._

But now, several years later, Blaise appears at the gates, Draco’s letter in hand, surprised that he hadn’t opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by the Manor’s secure walls. The apparition barrier must have been expanded outside the gate by the Wizengamot and DMLE as part of the Malfoys’ sentence . . . even though that sentence had now been completely served. 

Through the spaces between wrought iron, he views the first row and entry into the hedge maze. Somehow they look healthier than he remembers, better groomed and surrounded by . . . sunny grounds. Even the expanse of the house visible from where he stands is brighter, boasting a luster of fresh paint and edged by an array of colorful plants and flowers that are new, replacing familiar red and black rose bushes. 

Soon (though not nearly soon enough to befit such an august house) he is greeted by an unfamiliar young house elf (who introduces himself as Coffee), led into a receiving room and told ‘Mistress be with a guest presently. She is being with you in a moment, Master Zabini. Please be waiting here.” But Blaise has no intention of waiting – not in a house that (once) was as familiar and (more) home than his own. 

He wanders down halls that have the same shape and direction as those he once ran through with Draco and Theo as mischievous, innocent boys . . . though the walls and floor are different colors and materials now, the paintings marking every few feet no longer limited to family portraits. There are more windows than he remembers, all draped in light fabrics designed not so much to block the sunlight as they are to compliment and filter it. 

He takes the stairs to the third level and soon enough, he can hear soft voices, tinkling laughter, a soft plebian snort. There is the clink of glass or porcelain and Narcissa’s distinct feminine drawl. 

Smiling, Blaise feels more sober than he has in a long time, and he doesn’t even mind. Without fanfare or announcement, he steps into a new room (or perhaps a formerly sealed one?) which can only be described as a solar – small, private and warm – decorated in rich violet and cool blues and outfitted with every luxury short of a bed – a minibar and larder, built in book shelves laden with . . . Muggle paperbacks? as well as framed photographs (mostly of Draco), an ensuite he can see through one of two interior doors, as well as plush loungers and a writing desk.

Narcissa looks startled to see him, her words paused in a breath as she rises to stop him just two steps within the doorway, her ice blue eyes taking him in. He reaches out to her with a winning grin, unceremoniously greeting her as “My lady” in a tone generally reserved for seduction (it’s also a rather poorly kept secret that he’s pined after his mate’s mother since his fifteenth summer and though they are both technically married, he has high hopes he can appeal to her underlying sensuality now that he’s a fully adult man and her incarcerated husband was not granted conjugal visits). The pleasure of seeing her normally moon-pale cheeks blooming like ripe cherries is gratifying. Her frowning countenance, however, is not.

“I am currently entertaining, Blaise. I am sure Coffee informed you.”

Well, that reaction after their long estrangement is a tad less welcoming than he had anticipated. From his limited view within the doorway, he can see a set of shoes – _Muggle_ heels by the looks of them – a fashion faux pas that skitters past his awareness with the sight of stockinged ankles, shapely calves. His well-developed appreciation for the female form has him purring internally. “Are you? Anyone I know, _bella_?”

Narcissa’s countenance grows wary to his continued consternation, a scowl overtaking her previous blush. “No. I don’t believe you’ve met.” Her eyes slide toward her guest before pinning him with a pointed look. “What can I do for you?”

Whoever her guest is, she is obviously important to Narcissa . . . just **he** _should_ be important to her. He wonders if the mystery woman might be a lover (and if the possibility of joining them would be something Narcissa would allow or welcome). He files away this exchange for further analysis later. 

“Is everything all right, Narcissa?” There is a shuffle as the woman guest comes into view. Muggle shoes . . . and Muggle clothes – blouse and knee-length skirt. No wand or robes in sight. She’s of a similar age to Narcissa with darker hair twisted into a loose updo that looks slightly frizzed. There’s something familiar about her though he’s certainly never seen her before. Her clothes are obviously several seasons old and probably weren’t fashionable even at the time of purchase – even by Muggle standards. 

Forgetting where he is, who stands before him and that he is just a guest, Blaise looks down at this Muggle interloper, hoping to communicate his flaying hatred. “Everything’s just perfect, madam.” He gives her the very slightest of nodded acknowledgement. “Blaise Zabini.”

There’s something in the tilt of her chin, the fire behind her eyes; and then she speaks, “Dr. Helen Granger,” and he understands. “I seem to remember my daughter mentioning you in letters whilst in school.” Fucking hell, he _understands_. “It’s lovely to finally put a face to the name.” It’s the way she introduced herself like a _challenge_ ; how her eyes are burning into his as if inviting him to remove her from his sight, from this building, from _his world_.

His world. A world that had been falling apart since seventh year if not before.

Narcissa hisses that he is being rude. His body feels numb and heavy as he drops his gaze to hers, thoroughly betrayed and feeling as if there is nothing and nowhere that is stable anymore. He hisses back, “Does _Lord Malfoy_ know of this?”

When Narcissa seems more annoyed than moved, he swallows down the tickle in his throat and the burn of his eyes and stomps out of the place that had once been like home to him, suddenly feeling as if he is the only sane person left on earth and thrown out to sea without a wand. 

International apparition only makes him feel more off-kilter. The light rustle and slice of paper into his skin reminds that he still hasn’t verified Draco’s obviously erroneous Muggle address.

_When Blaise received Draco’s letter, he read it twice before observing the appropriate etiquette of communicating the main points to his wife (who was home for once), then made a mental note to respond at the earliest opportunity._

_He promptly forgot said mental note after attending several parties at which several bottles of elf wine, fire whiskey, cognac and scotch were drunk and several women (and possibly a few men? He wasn’t really certain; the memories were too blurry) were fucked. It was several weeks later that he was reminded when he visited Theo at the aptly named Notting Cabana, the villa Theo had purchased on the Isle of Capri as a symbol of emancipation from his father._

_“Draco wrote to me,” Theo said as they nursed sobering potion one morning after a particularly rowdy rave. “I’m to stay at his new flat whilst the renovations.”_

_Lounging upon a chaise like a sultan, Blaise pouted, “That’s not very fair. Why wasn’t I invited?”_

_Theo’s dark gaze positively **slayed**. “I imagine it’s because you never extended the courtesy of a reply.”_

_“We’ve been mates since we were eleven year old blighters. He knows me well enough to expect such.” He was markedly unconcerned as he drained his second vial of potion, glad for the noted relief of his head and stomach. He thought of how his mother was constantly nagging him to slow down with the drinking and carousing. She just never seemed to understand his retort that he’s a **wizard** , and why should he give up his vices if a simple potion can basically erase the harmful side effects?_

_“Perhaps; however, war changes people, Blaise.” Theo only needed one vial to appear more awake and alive, the shadows beneath his eyes brightening, his skin darkening to its usual olive. “I doubt Draco is the same person we remember him to be.”_

_Blaise thought this was bollocks. The war had been a disappointment – sure, and certainly it was unfortunate that the Malfoy family had not left England before they were captured, tried, and sentenced; but the outcome didn’t change anything. They were still handsome pureblooded wizards. In a word: **perfection**. The world around them may remain a Muggle infested shit hole; however, he was optimistic that everything would be put to rights eventually, whether this lifetime or the next. The Dark Lord had failed their generation and the generation before, but it was inevitable – the mongrel half-blood had been doomed to fail by virtue of his dirty blood from the beginning. _

_Regardless, Blaise was optimistic the wizarding world would return to the pure strength and glory of their mage ancestors. There was no need or reason for_ any _pureblood to change. Least of all a shining example like Draco Fucking Malfoy._

“He lives among . . . _Muggles?”_ Even as he nods in affirmation, Blaise can only admire the way Pansy’s lips sneer so deeply as she repeats the news, how her intonation and the way she enunciates _Mug_ is animated to simulate a disgusted gag. 

The words fall heavily between them along with the familiar silence that characterizes their marriage. Restless, Blaise fingers the cuff of his sleeve, runs his hand along the side seam of forest green trousers, the material brushing against his skin like nettles. Quickly, he transfigures the Muggle suit to his original fitted robes and feels – again - a simmering . . . something – not quite anger, something more than disappointment. Pansy’s face reflects this too as she swirls deep red wine around an antique Steuben hand-blown goblet worth 4300 galleons. He knows because the set of twelve had been his bridal gift to her. “In a Muggle neighborhood, yes. I didn’t stay long enough to find out if it goes further than that.” 

He doesn’t mention the Muggle woman – Mudblood Granger’s fucking mother – in Malfoy Manor. His household is mostly peaceful even with Pansy inhabiting. He would rather not ruin that peace by giving his wife an opportunity to rage.

Pouting, Pansy sits back more deeply into the royal purple velvet cushions of their antique palace sofa, sipping at her wine and closing her eyes. “But you will return to call on him, yes? Draco has been alone with his mother for too long. This . . . unexpected behavior is probably just some strange phase brought on by loneliness or something.”

He notices the glow of her cheeks and the relaxed posture of her shoulders. She must have enjoyed herself thoroughly during her travels. He would have to make certain she is not with child (and if she is, to ensure a miscarriage), though he knows Pansy is meticulous in guarding against such a travesty. Pureblood society would look poorly upon her should she fall pregnant with one of her lovers’ bastards.

“I was planning to call on him after our monthly cohabitation is over . . . granted we again fail to beget my heir.”

She doesn’t bat an eye at the reminder that – for the next few days – they will be fucking, though she does gracelessly gulp down the rest of her wine, pours herself another, fuller, glass. “Of course.” Her voice is as measured and cold as his mother’s after she bores with one of her husbands. At least, he knows Pansy cannot arrange for his untimely death. Such things – along with their monthly fuck schedule – have been carefully written into their bonding contract.

The antique Ansonia mantle clock chimes prettily, the peacocks painted on the front glass pane twitching then spreading their tail feathers. Blaise slowly steps over to his wife, takes her wine and drinks to the dredges before setting the goblet down to be fetched and cleaned later. “Shall we?” He offers his arm – a formality rather than a genuine invitation. Thoughts of Draco and blood treachery could be entertained later.

She huffs, eyes trained straight ahead, her face turning a pale shade of green. “I’m not nearly drunk enough.”

“Neither am I, darling; but let’s make the most of it, shall we?”

_As soon as it was confirmed that Pansy had not conceived . . . again, Blaise arranged an international portkey then directly informed his wife of his destination. She had – in her usual way – been bitingly cold and encouraging in equal measure. Her coldness reserved for him, encouragement for Draco, and a dismissal for herself._

_No doubt she would be on her way to the tropics to rendezvous with her latest conquest._

_He had drunk himself silly the night before his portkey was set to take him to London, waking the next day to find himself quite happily naked and draped over by three lovely young ladies he vaguely remembers being named Sophia, Mia, and Ava . . . maybe. Noting the time, he had stiffly removed himself from the bed to shower and dress before summoning his elfish valet, Rommel, to escort the ladies out as soon as they awoke._

_He had then dined on coffee and a buttered roll before going about his normal day – patronizing a few gambling rooms, doing a bit of shopping, visiting his mother, and whatever else took his leisure. He returned home in the evening to eat a simple supper starting with a little prosecco, a light antipasto of marinated vegetables and a main course of pork stew with crusty bread. Full and ready, he then gave Rommel instructions for the weekend, taking up the portkey and promptly feeling as if the pork stew had eaten_ him _._

_Upon reaching his destination (and recovering from the trip) – an apparition point just a mile or so off from Draco’s domicile, Blaise had been nonplussed (even though he had expected) to find himself in the midst of an obviously Muggle neighborhood with the distinct crass uniformity of Muggle buildings, the stench of Muggle refuse and petrol, overrun with Muggle vermin._

_He would have tried to apparate directly into Draco’s house (or at least his doorstep), but he wasn’t entirely certain exactly what sort of wards Draco may have spelled around the property. He also wasn’t entirely convinced the portkey had been set correctly._

_After all,_ che due palle _! Why was Draco Fucking Malfoy living with Muggle trash?_

_The mortification continued when he realized he would have to walk to his mate’s house surrounded by foul, diseased Muggles and their vile, disgusting city. With a sneer affixed to his teeth and a handkerchief pressed to his sensitive nose, he had quickly transfigured his haute robes into something . . . atrociously Muggle and scratchy. Closing his eyes, he had promised himself to evade any reflecting objects._

_Then again, he had thought snidely, maybe covering himself in sick would be an improvement_. _Perhaps, seeing how filth begets filth would convince Draco to return where he belonged._

It is Theo who answers the door (of course, something as insignificant as the sight of a house elf would send these simple-minded humanoid organisms into a tizzy, wouldn’t it?), his expression expectant and greeting lukewarm at best. “Draco has a date tonight and has already left. You can stay; however, I am not responsible if he reacts poorly to you showing up unannounced.” Things have been rather strained between them due to Theo’s insistence on carrying on with a . . . Muggle creature, he dared call a _paramour_ despite all advisement.

Blaise is rather confident nothing will come of the dalliance as Theo is, after all, a member of the Sacred Twenty-eight and the last of his line. He will need an heir – a pure heir – eventually and even magic cannot work the miracle of procreation between two men.

As for Draco, Blaise is prepared for his ire. Blaise – admittedly - had done his best to stay away from the fighting during the war (why risk his life when he could reap the benefits of others’ sacrifice?), the extent of his participation being his role in the Room of Requirement debacle. He had promptly abandoned Hogwarts after Vincent was lost. Abandoned Scotland, England, the fucking U.K., and he had neither returned to face the consequences of his actions (not that he had done anything wrong) nor been there for Draco through the highly publicized sham Wizengamot proceedings and subsequent sentence.

The way Blaise sees it, he had done Draco a favor. If forced to testify under veritaserum, he would have more than implicated Draco’s complicities with Death Eater activities. He had not been a Death Eater himself, had not witnessed the revels or other ritualistic operations directly; however, come sixth year, Draco had been quite open in his boasting, his complete pride and relish in being **chosen**.

At least, Draco had been proud at first. As the year wore on and more students dropped out of school - particularly after Dumbledore’s timely death and Voldemort’s triumphant coup, as the Muggle-born Registration Commission began to improve the homogeny of the wizarding population, as war became an irresistible force sucking them in rather than a mere whisp of rumor better ignored, Blaise had watched Draco Malfoy shrink and fade like a living ghost.

Part of him had been glad to see his spoiled, git of a friend taken down a peg. A larger part had fallen to quiet concern. How could the august Malfoy heir – a scion of pureblood supremacy and tradition – be anything but empowered and thrilled with the changes taking place before their eyes? The entitlements so carelessly thrown to undeserving half-bloods, muggle-borns and blood traitors by recent generations were finally their exclusive privilege again as magic and nature intended. Yet Draco, great actor though he was, seemed increasingly diminished and morose with each victory.

Further, Blaise was and is convinced that Draco had shown systematic mercy to rule-breakers under Alecto Carrow’s authority as Deputy Headmistress, though he had no proof and didn’t want any. It wasn’t something he had felt comfortable asking his mate about at the time. Draco had changed so much returning from Easter holiday seventh year, even more so than sixth year when he had been under orders to kill Dumbledore (mental really but also quite an honor). The blond had seemed equally broken and determined – broken in private moments, staring with reddened eyes into the mirror when he thought no one could see, determined when facing down their Death Eater professors and patrolling the halls at night, often rushing ahead around corners. 

Like a fucking Gryffindor now that he thought about it.

Honestly, Blaise had begun to suspect that Draco was doubting the correct and necessary work of their Lord and the (adult) Death Eaters as early as fifth year. He hadn’t wanted to confirm it. It was already bad enough that Theo was soft and (very quietly) had confessed that he believed they should trust the magic to know who was worthy and who wasn’t regardless of blood. Blaise didn’t know if he could handle another best mate toeing the line of blood treachery.

But of course, just like his fucking life, it already looks like this visit is going to go to shit. 

As Theo steps aside from the doorway to let him inside Draco’s . . . house, Blaise realizes he may be _forced_ to handle his friends’ committing (ed?) blood treachery. Theo gives him a short tour, noting that he has arrived only this morning and is still largely unfamiliar with the layout and that Draco’s house-elf Pidgey will be happy to help with any questions. When they reach Draco’s bedroom, Blaise’s attention is dedicated to the contents of the spacious walk-in: disappointingly, Draco’s wardrobe consists of mostly Muggle suits, a few business-style robes, one set of dress robes, and two casual robes. 

His eyes also catch on the bright yellow of a single sunflower dappled around with small blue blooms tied together and laid atop his bedside table. “You said he was dating someone?”

Theo is stepping out of the room to lead him downstairs back to the main room. “My understanding is that this is their first official date though they’ve been seeing each other in a business sense for months.”

“Then she’s a witch.” Draco could attempt to shift a portion of his family business to Muggle cosmetics; but Blaise is certain the CEO would be foolish to employ or otherwise meet frequently with some Muggle stooge. Draco is far from foolish.

Theo opens a hidden sideboard, pouring both of them a tumbler of fire whiskey. “Of course.”

Swirling the amber liquid, watching the depths darken and lighten in turn, Blaise muses that the woman in question cannot be Astoria Greengrass. Both he and Pansy had been absolutely scandalized when an article announcing Draco and Astoria’s broken engagement arrived on the front page of the Prophet. The newspaper had announced that the decision to split had been mutual and amicable; however, Pansy had immediately blamed Astoria while Blaise had felt in his bones that the fault lay with Draco.

Neither he nor his wife could understand how either party could spit on centuries of tradition in addition to their families’ express wishes and dreams. If the split was mutual and amicable as the Prophet proclaimed, why not marry and take advantage of that cooperative relationship? It was more than most arranged couples could boast, and moving forward, fulfilling the promises of their parents’ was only right and expected in order to continue a truly pure magical line.

Quickly, he mentally files through every available pureblood witch he’s familiar with in Europe and the U.K. and comes up with only a handful as there were few pureblood females born to their generation and most have been spoken for since childhood while others are already married. “So, who is it? Anyone I know?” Honestly, he doesn’t really _care_ , but . . .

Theo’s brown eyes are shuttered dark and direct as he gulps down the liquor without much finesse. “This is Draco’s business. He’s gone to great lengths already to protect her. If he wants you to know, he will tell you when he gets back.”

Blaise bares his teeth against the burn of the whiskey sliding down his throat. “Really, now? Your reticence only feeds my intrigue.”

Sighing, Theo throws back the rest of his drink before glancing side long at him. “Will you be joining me for dinner or were you planning to explore the city?”

As if he wanted to mix with Muggles _ever_. Did Theo know him at all? “If the resident house elf doesn’t mind preparing an extra place setting, I would dearly love to join you, Theo.”

Unfortunately, dinner was an uncomfortably silent affair filled in with clinks and stirs and the occasional pop as Pidgey appeared and disappeared to serve and take and refill and exchange. Theo barely made eye contact with him; and Blaise didn’t really wish to speak of private things.

It is a strange relief when Theo retreats to his prepared guest room for sleep at the crotchety hour of eleven. Left to his own devices, Blaise transfigures his already transfigured robes into a silk cigar jacket style pajama with matching bottoms before turning his charm skills to the couch, fluffing and enlarging the cushions until it rather resembled a luxury bed. If Draco’s other furniture shifted to block the fireplace or become crushed with the space filled, it is only due course for his absence. 

Though the transfigured bed is every bit as comfortable as he had planned it to be, sleep is as hard to come by as it always is; and he refuses to ask Draco’s house elf to fetch dreamless sleep. He sighs into the darkness. He’ll just have to count quaffles or something since he doesn’t have a partner to wear himself out with and he’s too much of a gentleman to wank on someone else’s couch. 

Pleasures of the flesh . . . he thinks of Pansy – their long friendship and subsequent courtship that wasn’t a courtship at all, their marriage and contractual open relationship . . . which leads to trying to remember all of the people he’s slept with, blurred memories that are – in a word – meaningless. Then he thinks of the flowers and ribbon on Draco’s bedside table and speculates why they are there, theorizes on the identity of the mysterious date . . .

He’s on the edge of falling asleep when he remembers Narcissa’s guest – a Muggle woman with the surname Granger. Then he is lost to slumber – an inky black dreamless nothing when --

“Incarcerous!”

The spell rips through the darkness in a blinding plane of white, impacting his body in rope and chain which he tries – unsuccessfully – to buck off even as the world tilts and his neck explodes in pain. He’s fallen headfirst off the bed into a small squarish space walled by the bed, wall, coffee table and chair, his neck stuck in a strange angle while the weight of the rest of him pushes down, suspended by his legs still resting on the bed. 

He musters the focus to yell, “FUCKING - Ooph!! -- DRACO??!” 

Light explodes around him without a whisper of magic, and he has to squint to recognize his attacker.

Feet stomp over to Blaise’s little square of torture while he tries to somehow wriggle through his binds. Draco towers over him, wand drawn and gray eyes seemingly blazing brighter than the too-white walls as he hisses, “What the fuck, Blaise?”

“What the fuck _me????_ ” Blaise glares up at his estranged mate with dark eyes, chest heaving. “What the fuck, _you_ , mate?? What kind of host attacks his guest in the middle of the night?!!” He wriggles harder, the back of his head thumping painfully and repeatedly on the floor despite searching for a favorable angle. 

Exhausted and already _done_ with this whole shit visit/intervention/ _thing_ , he glares, taking in Draco’s mussed Muggle suit and loose (orange? _Orange?_ Had Draco gone color blind?) tie (as if _living_ in a Muggle house in a Muggle neighborhood wasn’t enough of a blight on Pureblood values, to wear _their_ drab and inferior fabrics . . . ), the tangled platinum mess peaking at the back of his head. “Are you going to free me or what?”

Blaise manages to shift his head just enough to get a clearer view of Draco. It is a bit of a shock, seeing his friend again looking so healthy and strong, standing straight and unyielding – brave in facing an unknown perceived threat in his own Muggle home. Stranger still being the perceived threat and summarily unmanned.

Draco moves the chair away, squats before him, an inscrutable look marring his features. “It’s early morning actually. What are you doing here?”

Blaise stills, incensed and insulted that the blond _prat_ isn’t freeing him, mostly because his clothes (transfigured though they are) are of the finest silk. The fabric is light as a cloud, smooth as butter, and tailored to perfection. Every fucking second he remains in these binds, his precious clothes are being _crushed_. “What am I -- I’m fucking _visiting,_ you great prig!!! What does it look like I’m doing?” Draco is going to buy him new robes, he decides. As his fingernails grab and rub against the rough weave of the ropes, he mentally adds a manicure to Draco’s debt. “Why the bloody hell are you taking so long to bloody free me?”

Draco sighs, and it’s such a strange sound from his friend’s familiar stoicism, Blaise quiets and notes, aside from the Muggle attire and the wand held in one hand, Draco also holds a Muggle mobile – a device he is only able to recognize due to Theo’s own use of the damnable machine. “In third year, what did you say to me after my nose was broken?”

Blaise rolls his eyes _and_ snorts at having to prove himself. The fucking war is over, after all; and Dumbledick’s Fucktard Army wouldn’t have the collective balls to infiltrate and attack an ex-Death Eater in their home or anywhere for that matter. “’What kind of pussy allows a Mudblood to bitch slap him?’”

“And what was my sixteenth birthday present from my father?”

He allows a slimy sort of smile to slither across his teeth with the memory. “Oooohhh sweet, delectable Tabitha of the Terribly Tempting Thighs. Better than the shitty gift your aunt saddled you with.” His gaze skims over Draco’s left arm, wondering if the Mark is still there or if Draco had found a way to somehow erase it. Particularly considering the company he is rumored to be keeping of late.

Of course, considering his state of dress, the location and style of his home, Blaise simmers in the assumption that it isn’t just the Mark Draco seems interested in erasing. 

Before he can delve more deeply into the quagmire of possible Blood treachery, Draco stands smoothly then wandlessly and wordlessly releases the spell - ropes and chains disappearing from around Blaise into nothing. 

First pushing his torso onto the bed, Blaise eventually gets to his feet and spends countless seconds, twisting his head this way and that, patting himself down, straightening his pajamas, and checking for rips while Draco grumbles, “I recall writing to you. I also recall that you never responded; and I am sure I did not invite you to my house without the requisite response. I’m also curious how you gained entry as my wards are quite extensive and my floo is only open to one other location.”

As they stand in the harsh, disgustingly Muggle artificial light, Blaise realizes he doesn’t recognize the expression on Draco’s face, doesn’t really recognize the look in his eyes. For the first time since they met as first years, Draco Malfoy is a stranger. “You wrote to me, and Theo is here.” Gingerly, slowly – Draco is still holding his wand tightly after all, Blaise lowers himself onto the transfigured bed he has just been forcefully removed from. “That’s as good as an invitation.” 

Or . . . it used to be. Clearly, Draco disagrees if his scowl is anything to go by. “Theo doesn’t live here. From now on, announce yourself well BEFORE arriving and wait for my approval.”

 _Cazzo. Di. Merda._ Before . . . before everything went to utter and complete _puttanata_ , Draco wouldn’t have bat an eyelash at the sudden arrival of a friend. 

Narrowing his eyes and forcefully relaxing his posture, Blaise crosses his legs and scrutinizes his old friend. He shouldn’t have left Draco to his own devices for so long. He shouldn’t have allowed this travesty of his friend’s Mugglification to begin or get this far. “You’re being quite inhospitable. What doxy crawled up your arse?”

“I don’t have time to parse how utterly prattish you’re being right now; however, you are in need of remedial courses on houseguest etiquette.” Blaise can’t help but note how Draco pointedly ignores his insult. “Had you shown a degree of politesse, you would have been informed that I will be working on the continent starting _today._ ” Shrugging off the tacky, rumpled _Muggle_ (truly the worst of Draco’s current fashion sins) jacket and pulling at his (garish, _orange)_ tie, Draco walks toward the partially hidden staircase to this . . . _Muggle_ house’s upper levels. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have to –”

“Are you seriously _dismissing me_ after trussing me up like a Christmas pheasant.” It’s more than Blaise can bear, particularly when they have not even discussed how Draco will deliver his new robes (these ones will have to be destroyed before going home, being tainted with _Muggle_ air and _Muggle_ things as it were), the manicure, (any and all healer charges due to the stress of being in any proximity with plague-carrying, magic-sucking _Muggle filth),_ and why Blaise made this ill-turned journey in the first place. 

Draco sighs again, his face reflecting a wistful _something_ that disturbs Blaise to his very core. “Do as you wish for now, Blaise,” he says before scowling. “I’ll be travelling for at least a month – possibly more. Until I return, Theo – who, incidentally, _did_ inquire about a visit well ahead of arrival - is in charge of my house as his is being renovated.” Draco’s gaze is wholly unfamiliar – direct, pointed, and unyielding. “While you are here, be aware: Should Granger, anyone associated with her or my Muggle neighbors appear here, you will treat them with dignity and respect. Failure to do so will result in your ejection from my house, my wards, and my life. _Permanently._ ”

Draco (quite rudely) doesn’t stay to see Blaise’s shock and disgust, (selfishly) doesn’t remain to hear any recriminations. Blaise can only listen – completely gob smacked - as steps sound and recede with the whine and muted shush of a door shutting. 

Well . . . Pansy was going to be an utter nightmare about this. “ _Cazzo Madre di Dio.”_

_***_

September 19, 2000 - _Draco Malfoy's Residence_

Considering he grew up in an unstable, abusive household with a controlling, psychotic father and a beaten down, submissive mother, Theo Nott appreciates order and quiet. Were you to ask after his quintessential day, he would most likely say a day in near perfect silence with books, a sketch pad, and pencils nearby . . . the occasional snack and cup of tea. Nothing too fancy. Definitely nothing bombastic. Calm. Simple. Secure. _Lovely._

He had finally achieved such an idyllic existence with his permanent retreat from the war flush in England to the hermitage of his little villa on the Isle of Capri. There, he had read about the war and the resulting trials from the safety of his sitting room – a rather smallish space within his holdings done up in bronze and turquoise with marble floors, alight only by the sun roof, and affording a gorgeous view of a private pool and the sea. 

How he had wept at his own cowardice and helplessness when Draco’s sentence was reported. How he still felt burdened with guilt that he had been a shit person and a shittier friend by seemingly ignoring his old life, his old mates. 

Well, except for Blaise. Blaise had also fled to Italy though more to wait and see how he could twist his sparse war actions to his favor. Mrs. Zabini – similarly – had been determined only to return to England in some guise of triumph. Theo is now well educated in the widow’s skill in manipulation through the son’s own execution.

In the beginning, Blaise . . . Blaise had been a good mate, helping Theo transition smoothly, supporting him emotionally when he was tempted to run back ‘home’, and introducing him to the Italian magical community. It had been strange as it was occurring. Theo and Blaise had not been close at Hogwarts though they ran in the same circles and were each close in their own individual fashion to Draco. However, in Capri, their relationship blossomed – even turning romantic and sexual for a brief time before Blaise was convinced to begin courting Pansy.

In many ways, Theo still believes he owes Blaise though he has – with the help of his fiancé – begun to realize just how much Blaise takes advantage of this sense of debt. It is one of the many reasons he is currently renovating both of his main properties – in England and Capri; 1. So that he can move to England should he choose to do so without worrying about lingering dark magic and 2. To create a hybrid (muggle and magic) space for himself and his future spouse to enjoy in both properties.

Sighing to himself, Theo rolls up his sleeves before washing his hands. His muggle fiancé, Alejandro, always insists on Theo getting accustomed to performing everyday tasks without magic. Right now, Theo is attempting to make lunch. As he gathers the necessary ingredients from Draco’s pantry and muggle refrigerator, he muses on how Blaise showed up – again – this morning. He’s been popping in every few days to see if Draco has returned. Theo thinks the truth is more along the lines of avoiding Pansy.

Now, that is a strange relationship, he muses. Blaise and Pansy had been friends since first year though they had never been romantically linked. Their engagement and marriage were not really a surprise exactly – both were pureblooded, single and unpromised; however, those that knew them well had questioned the match quietly amongst themselves. Once the details of their marriage contract came to light, there was even more gossip.

Never before had a pureblooded couple written a contract baldly sanctioning rampant infidelity. Nor had a contract prescribed the amount and dates of intercourse between the married couple in such cold print. 

Personally, Theo hypothesizes that Blaise’s prejudice against muggles and muggleborns has less to do with blood prejudice and more to do with the freedom those with nonmagical ties seem to take for granted. Though, Blaise’s continued verbal barbs regarding Alejandro is beginning to grate deeply, eroding whatever empathy Theo has entertained thus far.

Adding to Theo’s irritation, Blaise has also been rampaging about Draco’s “foul flirtation” with the “Muddiest Mudblood Princess.” Theo had never bought into the whole pureblood supremacy party line, mosty because his father had been married to a pureblood woman – Theo’s mother – and murdered her in cold blood because _she had hugged Theo_. Nott Sr. had also beaten Theo within an inch of his own life a number of times over the years, spilling that purportedly precious. Valuable. _Sacred_. PURE. BLOOD.

The knowledge that his blood – the blood of his father and all of the other purebloods who seemed to believe they were somehow special and superior for simply existing – was actually worthless in the grand scheme of things had made his time in Slytherin House somewhat difficult. He learned pretty quickly to keep his opinions to himself or suffer the label of “blood traitor,” a label that brought with it even worse treatment than muggleborns.

Theo may have realized the fallacy of pureblood supremacy early in life; but he had never been stupid or foolish. His sense of self-preservation had taught him to hide in plain sight and follow without proclaiming commitment. In practice that meant nodding along with his suite mates when they complained about certain half-bloods or muggleborns but never really taking part in bullying them. 

It is interesting to him that Draco – once so earnest in proving himself to be just like his father – had spent the first few years at Hogwarts doing everything in his power to establish himself as a devoted dark disciple only to end up here in this muggle house in a muggle neighborhood and – apparently – a blossoming relationship with an infamous muggleborn. Interesting and relieving. 

Honestly, he had been somewhat taken aback the first time he had seen Draco after more than two years apart. The Draco of his memory had been wasted and gray and sad like a victim of a Dementor’s Kiss. The Draco he had found in muggle London is hearty and hale, damn near golden with an easy smile. He had never seen such light and happiness in Draco since they were children, before Hogwarts. Nor had he ever known Draco to be so . . . genuinely confident and certain of his own mind. 

Theo had never wanted to emulate his father, therefore, it had always been rather difficult for him to understand Draco’s and Blaise’s hero-worship of Lord Malfoy, particularly the singular thirst for approval Draco often displayed. The man Draco has become seems much more centered, head strong, and aware of his own worth – a man who casts his own shadow rather than a boy content to sit in the shadow of his father. For this reason, he can’t wait to get properly acquainted with Hermione Granger; and if he doesn’t get the chance while staying here, he’s already invited Draco (and Granger) to his annual New Year’s party at the villa.

Searching the kitchen cupboards for a frying pan for the bacon, he hears the muffled rhythm of knocking at the front door. Bringing up his hands, he notes the tomato juice still clinging to his fingers, the odd seed. Quickly, he moves to the basin to wash, straining his ears when the knocking stops, repeats, and the doorknob clicks open. 

The last time Blaise opened the door to someone, it had taken Theo four days to persuade the postie _and_ the bobbie that the house was perfectly safe and no one living or visiting there is dangerous. He quickens his movements and trips over his own feet, banging his chin on the floor and nearly biting his tongue off. 

He scrambles back up to his feet, ignoring the pain when he decides he doesn’t have time to cast a pain numbing spell. 

Blaise’s voice is deep and carries, but Theo cannot make out the words, only the slam of the door closing. He quickly dries his hands with a waiting towel and runs his hand through his dark hair, taking long strides into the main room. Blaise is just turning away from the door, a sour look on his face.

“Who knocked just now?” 

“No one of consequence, I assure you.” The words are measured and calm but the hand grasping at the wand hidden up his sleeve is telling. Blaise is agitated. Even more agitated than he had been with the postie. Theo narrows his eyes at his erstwhile frenemy before taking a step toward the door.

Blaise moves to block his progress.

Inwardly, Theo prays for patience. “If it’s no one, there is no reason to block the door.”

Another knock sounds then a feminine voice seeps through the heavy wood. “Zabini, you don’t have to let me in; however, I would appreciate it if you would take the plant. It’s for Draco from my parents.”

A pause then. “Could you get Nott if you don’t want to deal with me?” Another knock.

This time, Theo stomps forward only to have Blaise lunge, pushing him back. “What the fuck, Blaise!?” They scuffle, and though Blaise is the stronger man, Theo is faster. He manages to grab Blaise’s wand, throwing it over his shoulder then ducks under an arm, one hand grasping his own wand to cast a series of spells before reaching the door, opening it roughly.

And there she is – Hermione Granger – Gryffindor Princess, member of the christened Golden Trio, undisputed Brightest Witch of Their Age, and arguably the most famous Muggleborn in wizarding history. Theo smiles, appreciating that she hasn’t changed much over the three years since he saw her last at school. Her hair is still a frizzy mess (though longer and a bit weighted down), she remains petite and deceptively frail looking though the tilt of her chin and the hint of sass in her stance warn of her spirit and temper. 

There is a small purple bag slung across her cream colored jumper and orange scarf. Gloved hands are holding a potted snake plant (with absolutely no irony on her face). She is obviously struggling with the weight, and he briefly wonders why she didn’t charm it weightless, concluding quickly that she was probably concerned with muggle perception. 

He suddenly realizes she’s staring at him staring at her and nervously brings his hands up to straighten his hair and clothes. “Miss Granger, allow me to apologize for the idiot in the corner.” He can feel the heat in his cheeks, the heaviness of his breath – he isn’t accustomed to such exercise (or injury) and Blaise had managed to hit him in the solar plexis. He makes a show of stowing his wand back into his pocket, desperately wanting to make a good impression.

Her shoulders relax and she closes her eyes, the defensive cast to her expression fades. When she breathes out, she levels him with a sardonic little smile that has him imagining Alejandro squealing over how cute she is. “Mr. Nott, I humbly accept your apology.” Then, the smile widens as she winks over the snake plant’s fronds. “I have here a gift for the house, a small offering from myself and my parents, if you would be so kind as to accept in Lord Malfoy’s stead.”

Delighted, his lips transform into a smirk as he catches on. There are very few people who ever deign to play with him. Often, his intimate friends misunderstand (or just miss) his sense of dramatic humor. He imagines that his eyes take on a distinct glitter as he teases. “You are most gracious, indeed, Miss Granger. I’m sure the master of the house will be utterly charmed by your family’s thoughtful gift.” He takes the weight of clay and soil and large herb to set it just inside the door and against the near wall. “Please, take yourself from the chill and warm yourself by the fire.” He offers her his elbow like a gentleman should, and he is charmed when she very nearly breaks character with a small laugh even as she very delicately weaves her hand through the bend of his arm. “Lord Malfoy has instructed me (and the rude ogre just there) that you are always welcome in this house.”

Theo notes how her gaze skitters across Blaise’s form and the frowning pout marring his attractive features. “Have you always been such a gentleman, Mr. Nott? I should have appreciated such treatment while we were in school.”

“I’m afraid my charm held a wholly different flavor then. You are far more fortunate that you did not have a chance to partake.” There’s a subtle gagging noise behind them as he leads her into the main room, gesturing to have a seat. She shakes her head slowly, visibly holding back a giggle as he continues, “I understand from the Prophet that birthday wishes are in order. Can I get you a drink, Granger? A little bubbly for the occasion? Something to eat perhaps. You seem thinner than I remember or could it be you’ve shrunk?”

She scoffs, grinning and warm. He suddenly knows without a doubt that Alejandro would love her. “Tea please, thank you. Some of us are vertically challenged, unfortunately.” Her eyes widen a fraction before she asks, “Whatever happened to _you_?” At first, he is somewhat confused by the question until he realizes they are of a similar height – he only stands a handful of inches above her. Recalling the tall statures of her two best friends and Draco too, he imagines she is relieved not having to crane her neck for once. 

Blinking with the realization, Theo grins. “I think we will be great friends, Miss Granger.”

Blaise growls, stomping after them and pointedly glaring at her from the furthest possible seat in the room. Theo nearly rolls his eyes before remembering his manners and pretending ignorance.

Granger seems to follow his lead, though she can’t seem to resist asking. “Langlock?”

He nods, baring his teeth. “Among other things.” Blaise will most likely be a nightmare to deal with once she leaves; however, Theo decides he will not hesitate to continue defending her. It is obvious she has been instrumental in Draco’s rehabilitation and happiness; and – if only for that – he will be in Granger’s debt for a lifetime. Also, he made a promise to Draco, and Theo never betrays a promise.

She snorts and smiles, holding out her hand to shake. “Call me Hermione, please.” 

Habit has him taking the offered hand but not to shake. Rather, he lifts her fingers toward his mouth. It’s an innocent if gallant gesture, one ingrained in him since childhood; however, he can feel the tension in her fingers, the subtle pull of her wrist as he gets close enough that he knows his breath is fanning across her skin. 

In a moment, he glances at her face and sees trepidation there. He doesn’t know what experiences she must have had during the war, with his ilk . . . his father; and he has no intention of making this woman uncomfortable. She’s suffered enough. Instead of kissing her hand as pureblood custom dictates, he merely bows over her hand, catches her eyes with his and shoots her a jaunty wink before releasing her. 

Somewhere behind them, Blaise _snarls._ Thankfully, he isn’t versed in wandless _or_ wordless magic; but – out of an abundance of caution, Theo _accios_ Blaise’s wand and apologizes, “Please ignore the uncultured beast there. He’s apparently forgotten how to behave in polite company.” He shoots a glare at Blaise who glares right back. Theo promises himself to banish the arse should he commit one more social faux pas. “And please accept my heartfelt apologies for how I treated you in school.”

Graciously, she shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. “I seem to recall that you were never a participant in the bullying, just an observer.”

“That is bad enough to warrant an apology. I never subscribed to the idea that blood made one superior. I should have said something, stopped them. I had influence and was too cowardly to wield it.”

“You were protecting yourself, Nott. Had you spoken out, you would have been suspected of blood treachery. There is truly no need for apologies.”

Truly, Draco is possibly the luckiest wanker on the planet. “It’s an unexpected pleasure to make your acquaintance again after so long, Hermione. My friends call me Theo.” He makes a show of conjuring a tea service, cups and saucers, before pouring her a cuppa. “I prefer it to Nott. Otherwise, it sounds like an address to my father.” He sends her a tight smile over the steam of his own cup. “And I have been working diligently to distance myself from his reputation.”

She nods, a flash of understanding in her intelligent eyes. He watches as she turns her attention to her cup – a splash of milk and a dribble of honey. Soon enough, he realizes she is avoiding the angry deep brown eyes trying to burn her with their furious heat. He is about to ask her if she would rather move into the dining room (and away from the knob currently ruining any chances of future friendship with both Draco _and_ himself) when she asks, “Well then Theo, what have you been up to since Hogwarts?”

He is enough of a Slytherin to identify her phrasing is intentional. She knows he did not attend seventh year nor his schooling, was not part of the war effort on either side. He would wager she also knew about the abuse he suffered. It had been a horribly kept secret that Nott Sr. did not reserve his hate-fueled violence at home, that he would always be a prime _suspect_ in his wife’s demise (as well as several of his family members) regardless of Theo’s witness testimony. As a muggleborn, she had probably been horrified to learn that wizards traditionally did not interfere in cases of domestic abuse and that purebloods – dominating the Wizengamot as they did – rarely sought justice for violence within their own families (justice, no; vengeance . . . well, that was another story).

Alejandro had been disgusted and incensed when he had explained why his father had never been punished for his crimes against his wife, son and family. Hermione Granger seems of the same constitution. 

He imagines she would also realize that he would have had little reason to support his father’s actions. Similarly, he would have had little reason to believe he would be treated better by the Order; and he knows now that Draco felt much the same in sixth year and after with Voldemort living in his home, his family under thumb with no real way out. No doubt, Hermione is already familiar with those particulars as well.

He leans back, stirring the tip of his wand within the pale of his tea, turning it into wine. Hermione visibly suppresses a giggle though he is not certain why and doesn’t feel free enough in her presence to ask just yet. “The summer after sixth year – before Voldemort took the Ministry, I pulled a little financial ‘fuck you’ to my father and bought a rather lavish and unplottable villa on the Isle of Capri. Basically, I ran away like a thief in the night. Of course, I received a few howlers stating that I was disowned and a dead man walking – fairly lenient for ol’ Nott Senior. I just went about my life, became familiar with the area with Blaise’s help, went to a few parties, met people.” He stares into the depths of his cup, remembering the raging fear he had lived with in those early days of separation, always looking over his shoulder, fearful he would see his father’s hands reaching for him. “Unfortunately, the purchase left me with very little . . . liquid cash; however, with the start of the war and Death Eater duties, my father didn’t have much time to alter his will or legally disown me, so his death brought a windfall tidy enough to insure lives of leisure to my great grand-children at _least_.”

He appreciates that she doesn’t offer condolences for his father’s death, understands that she wouldn’t have meant it if she had. Instead, she focuses on the positive, “I’m always wanted to visit Capri. I understand it’s like a paradise in the summer.”

He sets his cup of wine down, his grin wide and intentionally toothy. “I’ve already told Draco that you and he are invited to my New Year’s party. You are both also very welcome to stay the night as I would be quite put out if you did not sample the fine collection of _vins du pays_ I’ve managed to hoard.”

Her cheeks blossom in a sweet flush when Draco’s name is mentioned, and he can’t help but laugh softly. The look emphasizes the understated prettiness of her face; and he knows absolutely that the second Alejandro sees that pinked skin and those wide eyes, his fiancé will want to dress and make Hermione up within an inch of her life. He will have to warn Draco before they are introduced. 

Of course, knowing his mate, Draco will probably just sit back and watch.

“I can’t speak for Draco, but I would love to attend if we can.” She looks genuinely pleased, and Theo suddenly wonders what she had expected coming here, knowing Draco couldn’t act as a buffer and that she would be alone with one or two people who had – to her knowledge – hated her existence in school and probably still did.

Appreciation for Gryffindor courage blooms in his chest. He knows he would never have found the strength. After all, hadn’t he run away and ignored the plight of his mate back home? Hadn’t he waited till Draco made the first move to reconnect? Even if she had not been instrumental in Voldemort’s downfall, he would still find Hermione Granger to be an extraordinary witch.

“Well, then, I will certainly look forward to hosting you. I have a feeling you and my fiancé will get along famously as well. He’s actually muggle and very keen to meet someone with a foot in both the magic and muggle realms.”

At this, Blaise stalks toward Theo and gestures violently toward Hermione, his hand clashing against the teacup in her hand, a hot stripe of scalding tea flying into her blouse and staining her skin a burning, singed red. Her veteran reflexes are quick if slightly slowed by years out of practice as Theo manages to cast a cooling charm directly after contact, the redness dulling into the rest of her flesh, a mere second before she does. She scourgifies her wet top and mends the broken, fallen teacup as Theo, feeling beyond angry and _done_ with Blaise’s continued prejudice, holds his (perhaps former) friend at wand point.

Hermione is telling him that she’s fine, that she knows it was an accident, and there is no need for further violence; but he can hear the hardness in the undertones of her voice, notes the bandage on her arm as she rolls up her sleeve to check if it too has been dampened. Draco had told him of Easter 1997, of what Bellatrix LeStrange had done and how grateful he was that Hermione had not blamed him for it. 

Theo does not lower his wand. Hermione has more right to be here than Blaise at this point; and he will not allow her to be treated like this when a war has already been fought and witnessed and won, and the roof they are currently under is her boyfriend’s.

With a quick attack and slight of hand, Blaise takes custody of his wand once more along with his voice. They are both yelling though neither has uttered a curse or spell. Unfortunately, the shouting match is not an isolated occurrence. Rather, this has become their mode of communication - grievances thrown out to fall between them on Draco’s shining hardwood floors. 

Theo never loses track of Hermione who stands at the ready, wand drawn but pale and visibly shaken.

The scene is chaotic and utterly rude. Since the house is – for all intents and purposes – empty space, the shouting echoes and multiplies, creating a cacophony that is discordant and upsetting. He glances at his (their?) guest as she blinks rapidly and grasps the excess material at her waist with subtly shaking hands. 

Blaise is focused on Theo as he accuses him of blood treachery, propels himself forward to grab at Theo’s shirt and throw him against a wall. 

“Stop.” It is soft, barely more than a whisper, but Theo hears it over the drum of his heart. Blaise is in his face, spittle flying from his mouth and onto Theo’s chin; but he is more concerned with Hermione as she grits her teeth and panic darkens her unfocused gaze. 

Knowing he needs to diffuse the situation, NOW, Theo uses all of his upper body strength to push Blaise away. They are now both brandishing their wands, a dark glint shining in Blaise’s earthy eyes while Theo burns with suppressed fury, betrayal and disappointment. Again, he hears her, “Stop it.”

Blaise’s mouth is a thin, hard line. “So, it’s come to this, has it?”

Theo narrows his eyes. “You are the only one with a problem here, Blaise. I am willing to overlook your atrocious behavior with a sincere apology to myself, Alejandro, Draco, and Hermione. Otherwise, you are no longer welcome in my presence.”

The air crackles with magic and Theo grips his wand a little tighter, spares a glance for Hermione who is now flushed and scowling. 

Blaise’s face twists into a monstrously ugly expression as he begins to scream that Theo is a disgrace to his name and blood, that Draco’s relationship with that “abomination” is disgusting and that he should have suffered the –

Suddenly, Hermione is between them, facing Blaise, as she roars like the lioness she is, “ ** _SHUT. IT._** ”

Theo immediately quiets and lowers his wand, vaguely ashamed and chastised. Blaise, on the other hand, shifts his wand to jab lightly under her chin before opening his mouth to start, “You don’t talk to _me_ like **that,** Mud –“ 

With a look that could freeze blood, Hermione mutters a spell and suddenly Blaise is _barking_. Like a particularly agitated Chihuahua. When he lunges at her, Theo moves to shield her but she has already made a small gesture with one hand, and Blaise is thrown back. Hard. His hands and feet held as if bound behind him and his mouth shut as if something covers it. 

With narrowed eyes, Hermione brandishes Blaise’s wand before calmly slipping it into her jumper sleeve. “Had you approached me calmly and civilly, I would have spoken to you in the same manner. I mentioned earlier that I acknowledge the tea was an accident and hold no grudges against you. Unfortunately, you seem determined to behave like an enormous prick.”

Theo starts sniggering behind her, and she shoots him a look so scalding, he immediately quiets, realizing why so many have feared this imperious little witch – including the immutable Harry Potter. 

Shaking her head slowly, Hermione lowers herself to better look into Zabini’s flashing, angry gaze. Theo opens his mouth to warn her away; but she’s already speaking, “Theo. Would you call on Draco’s house elf please?”

He blinks. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Had he been spoiling for a physical altercation as much as Blaise had been? “Of course . . . Pidgey?” 

A pop sounds behind her. Hermione does not break her staring contest with Blaise, now seemingly unfazed by the hatred in his look. Pidge is a youngish elf with bright bulbous black eyes and a bright white tuft of hair between his ears. He bows, ringing his hands nervously when he senses the magic gathered and waiting in the air. “Mister Nott calls Pidgey?” 

Theo nods slightly, his eyes focused on Hermione, ready to hex the life out of Blaise should he rise to do harm to her; but Granger hasn’t looked away from Blaise once – barely even blinked – as she frowns into Blaise’s face. It’s obvious she has no intention of giving a fraction of an inch. “Pidge, please see to Miss Granger. She is the one who wished to summon you.”

The house elf waddles to stand next to her, their heights similar with her bent as she is. “Pidgey is honored to finally meet Miss Granger. Master says to Pidgey, Pidgey is to follow Miss’s orders as if she is Pidgey’s Mistress.”

Hearing this, Blaise breaks the antagonistic eye-lock he had been engaged in, brows furrowing as he aims his disbelieving stare at the little house elf. Theo knows Draco had shared the nature of his relationship with Hermione. Blaise has no reason to appear confused that Draco would grant such power over his household. 

“Pidgey,” Hermione smiles at the elf. “I am also quite happy to meet you as well. Draco has told me nothing but good things and is very appreciative of your service.”

The elf’s smile is bright and endearing, a slight darkening to his cheeks. “Miss is just as Master described her! Pidgey will be happy to grant any of Miss’s requests!” Theo suppresses a chuckle. How had anyone missed how charming Granger could be? 

Hermione raises her eyes to Theo for just a breath before turning back to her captive and addressing Blaise’s prone form. “I know that Draco spoke to you Zabini. I also know you were never formally invited here, so I can only imagine that you rudely showed up unannounced before rudely denying me entry into _my boyfriend’s_ house.”

At his choking sound beneath the nothing? across his mouth, Hermione nods absently. “That’s right. Draco and I are dating. I have a _key_ to this house. Draco’s floo is only connected fully to _my_ house.” She sighs before pointedly standing over him. “He’s not the same Draco you knew at Hogwarts, Zabini. The war changed us all – some of us for the better.”

He is shaking with rage, his eyes bloodshot and unblinking. When he thrusts his body forward, coming just a few inches closer to her, she steps back and calmly orders, “Pidgey, please see Mr. Zabini back to his home.” 

A moment later, Pidgey and Zabini are gone with a loud crack that breaks something in her. Her entire body seems to go limp as her knees fail. 

Theo sees her begin to fall and staggers as quickly as he can to catch her, easing her to the ground before fetching her a tumbler of spirits. He does not know what else to do. 

He says nothing of her tears when he notes them, apologizing over and over even as she begs him not to tell Draco. Why _wouldn’t_ he tell Draco? All of this had unraveled in Draco’s house. It involved Draco’s friend and girlfriend. Said girlfriend had done absolutely _nothing_ to invite the vitriol and violence that had occurred; and when Theo had failed to take care of it in an expedient manner, _she_ dealt with it without bloodshed or injury and even removed the aggressor without fuss or outside involvement. 

And if those weren’t reasons enough to tell Draco, Theo had made a promise to report any abuse Blaise (or anyone else) brought to Hermione, her family, or the neighbors. Theo never broke a promise if he could help it, which was why he rarely ever made them.

He says nothing of her request to keep silent, just offers her his handkerchief and lifts her to the sofa to drink a few sips of fire whiskey (which she takes but cringes at) before quickly finishing his forgotten BLT and offering it to her on a silver platter.

He protests when she makes to leave once Pidge returns, her face still an alarming shade of pale and her hand glued to her opposite wrist – the one with the bandage. They had just begun to talk, and he has not yet heard about her employments since school or how she had fallen for Draco. She implies that they will talk at some nebulous ‘later’, thanks him for his hospitality and the invitation for New Year’s before giving instructions for the plant’s care. Theo tries to apologize – again- for Blaise’s prejudiced behavior, but Hermione will not have it. She shocks him by kissing his cheek before taking her leave through the floo.

Theo watches until the green flames and embers have completely burnished to orange then moves to the home office to draft a letter to Draco.

***

November 1, 2000 _– Oslo, Norway_

When Oslo exits the taxi with her luggage, it is still dark, she is still cold and still exhausted. Meggie is on the mobile, reprimanding her for being so distant of late, for missing calls and not returning them, for sounding like death is in her throat and sighing is her every breath.

Oslo tells her sister-in-law that 1. They should both be abed at this late hour; 2. The project she’s working on has required more time and energy than any of the involved parties had anticipated; and 3. She fully intends to reconnect with _everyone_ as soon as the project is over.

Meggie murmurs that they will all still be here. Oslo smiles and says she knows before, “Could you please let Hermione know that I will call her as soon as I am able? She’s been rather insistent, and her calls always come when I’m away or indisposed.” 

“Most likely she wants to tell you about her date with a certain vocal _dr –_ ”

“I know who she went on a date with, _Margarite_.”

“Oooh, then can I tell you about how –”

“No.”

“But it’s so –”

“No.”

“And she looked like –”

“N. O. NO.”

“ _Honestly Cressida!”_

“Hermione will tell me in good time.” She already has a good idea of how the date went anyway. Draco had been . . . rather close-mouthed; but his expressions and the light in his eyes had given much away when she had deigned to ask. “Right now, I must be off, dear.”

Meggie sighs, a mere echo of the loud snore that suddenly breaks over the receiver. “Very well, my darling. Sleep well.”

“You too. Send my love to John, Sarah, Landon, Baker and Suri.”

“Of course. Give Iris a kiss and hug from her God-mummy.”

They say their good-byes just as she reaches the door, a solar-powered spotlight illuminating the space. The air is just crisp enough to discourage insects from swarming, and she clucks her tongue when she sees the slightly wilt in the leaves of her _anemone hepatica_ , makes a mental note to inspect the roots and leaves tomorrow morning.

She doesn’t bother catching the lights, as the front door opens into the main room, which is mostly open space, the few pieces of furniture well-memorized and easily dodged. Her luggage is abandoned as she takes off her coat and makes her way, first, to Iris’s room. Her baby girl is fast asleep, one thumb lying against her open mouth as drool ropes down to her pillow, gelling her hair.

Chuckling quietly, Oslo cleans the little one as best she can without waking her, watching as Iris smacks her lips and turns to one side, bundling her blanket to cuddle though her stuffed unicorn lies cold and unloved on the other side.

Next, she creeps to the kitchen, prepares a bit of toast and beans to relieve the hunger gnawing at her stomach since her first flight that morning. Maybe next time she would take Draco up on his offer of using one of those portkey things. 

Leaving the dishes for tomorrow or – more accurately – later _today_ , she debates briefly on whether to shower before checking in on Draco in the basement. She knows he is pushing a double shift as Rosemary had a family emergency come up that would keep her till mid-day. Oslo has every intention of offering to watch over things so that her future nephew-in-law can take a much-needed rest. If she must, she will even recruit Iris to the cause. She is not beneath weaponizing her child’s cuteness.

Foregoing the shower, Oslo descends into the darkened stairwell, knocks at the basement door. It opens after a short wait, Draco’s pasty countenance showing signs of palpable weariness. There is dark bruising around his eyes, a (slighty) gaunt hollow to his cheeks. She knows he is not using his free time to sleep as he should – instead: working out, running, checking in with his company’s operations team and his assistant, talking to Hermione, writing correspondence, and (sometimes) eating.

His blatant self-neglect has finally become clearly evident.

“ _Du ser ut som dritt_.” 

Draco blinks, squints, then blinks again. “What?”

She takes a large inhale of the fumes permeating the air but even the gentle scents of simmering herbs and fresh flowers could not cover the stench of old sweat permeating from the man. “ _Du lukter som dritt ogs_ _å._ ”

He buries his hands in blond hair that seems dull with sweat and dirt, probably in need of a good washing. She winces when several joints crack audibly with the movement. “Merlin and Morgana, either I’m in a dream or my brain is too tired to translate.”

Pushing past him, Oslo takes in the steaming cauldrons, the lined-up notebooks, the new arrangement of ingredients and the utter chaos of what is now affectionately considered Draco’s desk. “I said you look like shit and you stink also.” She picks up a few feet of parchment, scanning through the chain of numbers and calculations. 

_Arithmancy_ , Draco had called it – a type of divination involving numerology and computation of probability . . . somewhat similar to statistics. Maybe? “You should go to sleep, Draco, dear. If you don’t want to beam up to your hotel, you are more than welcome to stay here. I can watch the cauldrons for you till sunrise; and Iris will be thrilled to breakfast with you.”

He sighs and arcs his back, arms up and spine popping. “Can’t. On the verge of a breakthrough.” He takes the parchment full of numbers from her, lays them flat on the desk and points to a high-lighted chain of results. “As predicted before testing began, the goldenrod has a high probability of success when using both the Agrippan and Chaldean methods of calculation.” Almost feverishly, he stalks to a jar labeled with date, time, cauldron type, and some code she cannot parse. The jar is tinted so she’s not certain what the contents look like even after he removes the lid. He then fetches the locked box, taps it with his wand and pulls out his aunt’s cursed knife. 

Oslo involuntarily takes two steps back, away from the tool of her god-daughter’s torture.

Without warning, Draco slices the blade shallowly through the pale of his arm – the one without the muddy vestiges of a tattoo. Oslo squeaks and whimpers, reaching out a hand only to pause at the heated, fierce look in Draco’s eyes. He holds out his arm, watching absently as his blood flows in thin rivulets over the curvature of his musculature to drip onto the floor. 

Carefully, he places the knife onto a prepared cloth and dips the fingers of his uninjured arm into the jar. The ‘potion’ is thick and creamy, of a strange iridescence and exuding a faint scent that reminds her of black licorice. He slathers it onto his wound and moments later, the concoction begins to bubble and hiss as the lacerated skin – very clearly – weaves together new skin, leaving no scar.

Oslo can feel herself gaping like a fish even though she had previously watched as his tattoo had broken up into a cloud of shapelessness while he tested an earlier batch. She does not know of any other appropriate reaction.

Draco wipes the excess ointment from his fingers, cleans the knife and carefully replaces both in their places of origin. “That batch works very similarly to essence of dittany; however, though the wound closes with no trace or scar, the burning pain beneath the skin’s surface remains.” He sinks onto a stool, settling his chin on his hands as he leans elbows on table, watching the steam rising from a gold cauldron as if in a trance. “I had three curse breakers here to verify that the curse remained active despite the obvious surface healing. I theorize that the knife’s dark magic can permeate into the tissues and blood preventing healing. Have to experiment more with it . . . maybe dill . . . valerian root . . . Eucalyptus? I’ve been working on the calculations since the other favored enhancers haven’t –"

“Draco –”

But he’s muttering to himself and doesn’t seem to even know she’s there anymore. “I’ll need to consult with Rosemary on whether a poultice, ointment, or oral mixture would be more effective. “ 

Oslo places a gentle hand on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades as she did with Iris when she was upset. “Draco . . . Darling, these things can be taken care of after sleep.”

He turns his head, bewildered and blinking as if just now recognizing her. “I’m so close, Oslo. So _close_.”

“You’re close to collapsing and ending up in hospital,” she says firmly. “Now get your bum to the couch and sleep. I’ll keep an eye on these.”

“Now that you mention . . . I received an owl this morning . . . she spent last night helping Aria with her labor. The baby arrived at 4:55am – a girl. They named her Ottava Fred.” Running a slightly shaky hand through his hair, Draco’s shoulders droop around his body. “They have to be stirred in four hours.”

Oslo smiles, understanding. “Then sleep for four hours or I’ll have Rosemary slip you one of those sleeping draughts you wizard folk use as sleep aids.”

He stares at her blankly for a long breath before glancing longingly at the bubbling cauldrons and hobbling toward the stairs. “Four hours.”

Oslo grins as she watches him. “Sweet dreams, dear.” 

As the door closes behind him, she sighs, looking out at the line of cauldrons with their color-coded notebooks and ready quills and giggles when she remembers her initial reaction to potions.

 _“Jesus, you people really use eyes of newts and insect parts in your heathenistic chemistry experiments?” The question had been burning inside her brain for weeks, but only just now did she have the confidence in their rapport to actually ask. Oslo smirked as Draco mock glared at her from his position observing a steaming cauldron (of the_ Boil, boil, toil and trouble _variety) – one of many._

_She seated herself on one of six high stools near the brewing bench they had constructed in her basement, six cauldrons of varying materials (pewter, brass, copper, silver, gold, and fire crab) and temperatures (though with the same ingredients and adding protocols) brewing along its length. Each had a notebook and quill near it of differing color and label._

_Oslo picked up the blue one, flipping to the most recent recordings. It was near full. She could tell by the set of Draco’s shoulders that he was beginning to feel defeated, and she frowned, glad that Iris was at school and could not see it._

_He was so obsessed with the result that he wanted, he was blind to the progress already made._

_She watched him surreptitiously over the pages. He had just finished adding the dried and pulverized_ _anethum graveolens L._ and _celosia agentea to each cauldron, his muscles twitching with pain – she thought – and dehydration – she knew, his eyes burning red from lack of sleep. Rosemary Gladstone, a half-blood American witch and well-regarded herbalist in both magical and Muggle circles - would be in soon to relieve him for a twelve hour shift so that he could rest and -hopefully- eat the breakfast and drink the tea Oslo had waiting for him upstairs._

_She sighed quietly when she noticed his hair looked less than pristine, the strands messy in a way that suggested a lack of self-care rather than a fashion statement. It was disheartening. He had been so optimistic, excited and energetic when he first arrived. He had told her about a hundred times that first week that he projected a quick, positive result. Every failure since (and – she theorized – Hermione’s absence) had chipped away at that frail optimism._

_He ran his tongue along his teeth and grimaced. “And lacewing flies, cockroaches, and leeches – to name a few.”_

_Oslo set down the notebook in its exact home, stuck her tongue out whilst making gagging noises. “And you actually drink this stuff?” She knew the answer, had heard different forms of the affirmative. She just didn’t want to believe that Hermione had and – one day – her own daughter would ingest such . . . ingredients._

_Draco mopped his forehead and the back of his neck with a handkerchief. His dinner jacket was hanging from the stairway guardrail, his shirt sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone. Still, there were prominent wet spots along his arm pits and down his back. Even Oslo – who had just arrived, already felt effected by the heat and humidity in the underground space, her curls morphing into some strange scraggily thing that resembled the hide of a swamp beast._

_“That and more.” She knew from previous conversations along the same lines that he had never really thought about the ingredients of a potion and the ingestion of each component. He had admitted laughingly now the thought of some recipes were beyond disgusting._

_Oslo’s face was stuck in a mask of repulsion. “Ah . . . well, at least everything is boiled for safety.” A pause, then. “So . . . will Iris learn how to . . . brew potions at magic school? Or is this a skill traditionally learned at home?”_

She is sure he sometimes tired of questions like that – about magic and school and wizarding society – littered as they had been throughout his visit so far. Though he told her, during one of their preliminary mobile conversations, the sheer bulk of information that had traversed between them underlined (again) for him the utter lack of empathy and grace his family (and their ilk) have disseminated towards Muggle-born families. 

That statement had precipitated a promise to explain himself; and later, in person, he had told her of his history – of his family, their beliefs, their fellowship with the monster that had wanted her niece dead, . . . his role in the war. 

He had apologized. Told her he was a different man now. She had told him she needed to sleep on the information he had given her. After all, her daughter is a Muggleborn. Had she been born at a different time . . . . 

The following night, she had thought about Hermione. How Hermione had neglected to tell her about Draco’s enmity. How Hermione looked at the young man when he wasn’t looking. How the rest of Hermione’s friends had treated him. How her brother and Helen had treated him.

When he had shown up at her doorstep the next day to relieve Rosemary, she had offered him a cup of tea and invited him to breakfast with her and Iris. The news of his past actions had been jarring . . . surprising, not only because she couldn’t imagine anyone hating her beloved god-child and daughter; but because in her own – admittedly – small acquaintance with Draco, she would have never guessed that he had once harbored those prejudices. 

From the first, he had treated her and her family with respect and humor. After his arrival at her house, he had been nothing short of an ideal house guest and a willingly engaged playmate to Iris; and Oslo had chosen to judge him based on what she knew first hand rather than the stranger that he said he used to be.

With her acceptance, a tension she had not immediately noticed, visibly relaxed in him. His smile started coming easier. His play with Iris held less self-consciousness. In return, Oslo treated him like an extension of Hermione – like a cherished nephew who traveled to parts unknown and had wisdom to share. She trusted him to answer her honestly and the interrogation went on in stops and starts as Oslo came to understand the wizarding world a little more, and Draco admitted he was coming to realize the magnitude of ignorance Muggleborns were kept in, even after entering the magical world. 

Lifelong knowledge of basic things like proper wand holds and maintenance, the existence of house-elves, household charms, cursed items, and elementary potions already gave wizards – pure and half-blood alike – a distinct advantage over utterly green Muggleborns from the very beginning of their cohabitation. In this way, Draco said, he could sort of understand how some would judge Muggleborns ‘inferior’ but only just; after all, the Muggleborns he knew of (not just “Granger” who is simply “exceptional in every way”) had all risen to the occasion, passing the same classes as purebloods even with the handicap of a magic-less childhood.

_Oslo smiled her ‘mom’ smile at him, half-wishing she could have seen him in the ‘before’ to better appreciate the ‘after.’ By all accounts (his), it must have been quite the transformation._

_“Yes, potions is compulsory through sixth year – advanced potions in seventh year is reserved for those with a certain aptitude for theoretical potion formulation and a desire to pursue a career in potion-making.” He took up the fourth notebook and began to write his actions and observations. “First year potions is generally a review of safe brewing practices, ingredient gathering procedures and a survey of potion recipes commonly used in wizarding households. Iris will also learn about bezoars, preparing the Draught of Living Death and a few other aspects of more complex potions . . . “ He met her inscrutable gaze for a moment. “I could begin tutoring her while I’m here, if you like.”_

_“I’m not quite ready for her to start . . . all of that; but thank you.” She flashed a half smile before dragging a forearm across her sweaty forehead. “Have you told Hermione where you and what you’re doing yet?”_

_His features flinched as they had every time she’s asked. She had pursued this line of conversation since just before he arrived, and he had managed to dodge every time so far. She didn’t ask everyday but it was a near thing._

_Mostly because she was Hermione’s aunt and godmother. Less because she could tell the secrecy bothered him as much as she knew it definitely bothered Hermione._

_She watched as he moved toward her, his work space, the way his gait was less even and his posture more rigid than usual. Without prompt, she grabbed a nearby chair and spun it to face him. He glanced at her, hesitant, but he did as she silently commanded, dropping into the seat with a groan. “No . . . but, I did correspond with her last night.” Oslo raised one eyebrow, pointedly silent as she watched him steadily. He sighed heavily. “I’m not . . . it’s not a secret for the sake of secrecy.” He reached into his trouser pocket – a frequent gesture._

_Oslo knew he was fingering a shrunken box that contained a rather wicked looking knife. The same knife that had carved into her own kin. Draco guarded it with the ferocity of his namesake, as if worried his aunt would come back from the dead to snatch it back._

_“She’s going to be boiling when she finds out, Draco.” Oslo warned softly, also knowing he kept a small ring box in his other pocket though he had yet to reveal the contents. “Hermione defines herself by her intelligence. She’s accustomed to being consulted by friends and family alike regarding problems and puzzles. That you have done everything in your power to circumvent her input in this will sting her all the more because it’s you and this has everything to do with her.”_

Oslo knows this because she has her own apologies and excuses to make to her niece. Becoming involved with Draco’s personal project had become more complicated than any of them had anticipated. 

Before Draco’s arrival, he and Rosemary had narrowed down what “muggle” ingredients would have the most efficacy based on Oslo’s own notes and recommendations with that magical math of theirs. As the potion components were finalized, they had agreed that brew testing should be conducted in Oslo’s basement. As Oslo was a muggle, she could not have access to Draco’s or Rosemary’s laboratories – both of which were located in the wizarding community - and brewing in a muggle institution was in direct violation of the Statute of Secrecy. Oslo’s basement was well hidden, her house isolated and of a good distance from the nearest neighbors. It was also spacious and well ventilated.

Rosemary had arrived at Oslo’s home first to set up the brewing station while Oslo was away gathering the first batch of “muggle” ingredients. Draco had been firm that all ingredients needed to be harvested a certain way at a certain time located near or in the region of origin under the most favorable conditions which meant traveling internationally and returning with the contraband as quickly as possible. There were times, she had had to negotiate with indigenous peoples and other times she had had to deal with multiple governments. For the first few weeks or so of Draco’s stay, Oslo had been on planes the majority of the time and missing or sleeping through Hermione’s customary weekly phone calls. 

It was almost a relief. Oslo didn’t like even the idea of lying to her god-daughter, and if she didn’t talk to Hermione, she wouldn’t have to lie (about her whereabouts, why she was there, what she was doing, and who with). 

Both Draco and Rosemary had warned her rather early on in the process that the main struggle in theoretical potions was determining the _process_ and _incantation_ not the ingredients; and that was exactly what was happening. The ingredients worked but not as well as they should according to the magical math, so Draco and Rosemary were constantly coming up with different procedures – stir this way x times then the other way y times; cover this many hours; lower heat at this time; add this herb crushed no sliced no chopped . . . It seemed to go on and on. 

She knows the extended wait for the expected and wanted results has been difficult for Draco, and she fervently wishes she could help more than simply acting as ingredient advisor, international liaison, and inventory manager.

_“Not everything. Not now.” He had said, bolting out of the chair and stomping around the steaming cauldron apparatuses. “It started that way. Hermione was – is my inspiration, but she’s not . . . she’s not my ultimate purpose in this.” He fingered the yellow notebook, the jars and vials and sample bags lying ready and clearly labeled nearby alongside a plethora of measuring utensils, gloves, and pincers._

She watches and thinks back to how all of this came to be here in her basement in the heat with defeat lining Draco’s face and shoulders while determination still shone from his eyes.

The first letter had arrived via post, approximately two days after the birthday luncheon at Richard’s home in England. In it, Draco had reintroduced himself, explained that he had received her name from a colleague – Rosemary Gladstone from America. He had read several of her anthologized papers at the library and would very much appreciate her assistance with a sensitive project he was formulating. 

Intrigued, she had written him back which led to their first mobile conversation. During that first real-time exchange, Draco had told her of his aunt’s responsibility (and his own self-incrimination) for Hermione’s mutilated arm. He had told her of Hermione’s throw away comment about Muggles having their own magic and how those words had sparked a sizzle of inspiration: What if the cure to wounds left by Bellatrix’s cursed knife (and possibly other cursed objects) wasn’t magical but Muggle? 

Draco had contacted Hermione’s friend, Neville, first, asking for his input and any reference materials regarding herbology – magical or otherwise - available. With some research under his belt, Draco had then – as quietly as possible – tracked down other surviving victims of the knife and other cursed weapons. Once those fortunate survivors had been interviewed and examined by a specialist in cursed wounds, he had made inquiries through his Muggleborn assistant – Michael Bowman - regarding Muggle herbalists, anthropological experts, and other scholars that may have a unique outlook on a solution.

Both Neville _and_ Bowman had referenced an American herbalist named Rosemary Gladstone – a half-blood who serviced both the wizarding and No-Maj communities. Rosemary had not only committed herself to the project, she had referred Draco to an old school colleague – a muggle professor and an expert in the disciplines of ethnobotany – the study of regional plants and their practical use through traditional knowledge of the local culture and people – and ethnomedicine – the study and comparison of traditional medicine based on bioactive compounds in plants and animals practiced by various ethnic groups, especially those with limited access to western medicine.

Oslo remembers the first time Draco had met her face-to-face in her office at university. He had mentioned how it was almost serendipitous that _Doctor Cressida Granger_ had written several papers and lead a handful of culturally immersive expeditions regarding the very subjects he felt would help his cause.

_“There are many affected – not only by Bellatrix’s blade but – by various cursed objects and dark spells, living with the scars or worse. All of the people incarcerated in the Janus Thickey Ward, for instance – most of whom were put there by people I was close or related to.”_

_Taking his abandoned seat, Oslo tugged on her own curls, a sign of grating frustration, though it was not aimed at him. “Your sense of responsibility is admirable but also unwarranted.” Draco stared into one of the cauldrons – the pewter one, fingertips just barely hovering over large bunches of carefully harvested_ _Solidago canadensis and Solidago virgaurea_ _. Soon, the groups would be divided, half of each species to be extracted of their essences. “However, I don’t understand how wanting to heal all those people in addition to Hermione warrants secrecy.”_

_He bit his bottom lip, cheeks pinked and brow scrunched up with equal agitation. “If I had told her, she would want to help. In anything else, that would be acceptable; but this, I need to accomplish on my own.”_

_There was something in his voice, something raw and deep and – somehow – aged. It reminded her of the few times her father felt comfortable speaking of his experiences of war. The juxtaposition of his youth and that voice pushed her more firmly in the chair, hands numb and falling from her hair. “She’s going to think you don’t trust her, Draco.”_

_His sigh was impossibly heavy as if it had been building below his diaphragm for decades, but his eyes were coal dark and confident when he turned his face to her. “I trust her to understand.”_

Oslo realizes, she’s trusting Hermione to understand too.

BONUS CUT SCENE #1:

September 9, 2000 – Later, Oslo, Norway  
When Draco arrives from the swirling vortex of portkey magic, he falls to his knees amidst a veritable Garden of Eden – all verdant vines and shrubs and trees with a variety of flowering vegetation providing pops of color, just as vibrant and alive even in the midst of descending winter. The cottage he’s looking for is set back amidst the seeming devouring plant-life – a perception he knows is part of the owner’s design.  
As he gets his feet, distracted by the sound of something creaking and crashing, a fluttering bird twittering to another hidden within tree leaves, he is nearly bowled over by a tiny body slamming into his leg. “Mr. Dragon!” Little arms are squeezing around his thigh as he laughs and pats tangled brown curls, looking down into a small, eager face smeared with something purple and smelling of blueberry.  
“God morgen, Iris.” He smiles, genuinely pleased to see the young witch again. “Were you in the middle of breakfast?”  
The child nods with more force than necessary, her eyes large and smile wide. “Uh huh. Mummy gave extra jam today ‘cause I finish five,” she holds up her hand, fingers splayed apart pointedly “whole days of barn-oggy!”  
Chuckling, Draco kneels before the girl. “Well, then, you certainly deserve such a sweet reward. Did you enjoy barnehage?” His relationship with Iris had evolved quickly and unexpectedly through numerous telephone conversations and face-to-face meetings that had more to do with the mother than Iris herself. Yet, the little girl had charmed Draco with her innocent kindness and general exuberance.  
If possible, her eyes widen even more, her rosie lips ringing into a happy, tiny ‘o’. “Oh yes! I gots my own cubby and a purple sock for when we do paints! And Miss Ida is the teacher and she has white hair like Santa! And we go outside after lunch to play on slides but Jakob pushed me off one time and I gots an owie.” She shows him, folding her arm to present an elbow that is scabbed over and still surrounded by the red of healing.  
He runs his thumb over the wound, hissing for her benefit. “And what happened to Jakob?”  
“I tell him he can’t be my friend if he does mean things.”  
Draco nods, inwardly debating on whether Oslo will be angry if he uses a mild healing spell on Iris. “Too right. What about the rest of your classmates. Are they friendly?” They had better be. He isn’t beneath using underhanded tactics to ensure Iris’ first real school experience is an enjoyable, enriching one. As with Edward, he has become quite protective of Hermione’s young cousin – possibly moreso as he has (silently) committed himself to also guiding and helping her before and during her entrance into magical society. (The way he should have done . . . with the elder Granger witch).  
She bounces on her feet, socks a shimmery blue paint that matches her ‘Toy Story’ night dress. “Yes, yes! No-rah shared her puzzle with me at play time and Sah-rah let me have the pink crayon even though she was coloring with it and Liam tell me I have pretty hair . . . “  
Laughing, Draco tells her that Liam sounds like a fine bloke and that he’s glad she’s having so much fun at school. He then asks after Oslo, and Iris grabs three of his fingers in a small, sticky hand (with finger nails painted in the same shimmery blue as night gown and socks) to pull him after her through the front door of Cressida “Oslo” Granger’s cottage, a large wooden placard done in baby blue, chick yellow, and rosebud pink spelling out a loud and much appreciated ‘Welcome’.

Bonus Cut Scene #2

September 19, 2000 – back in England  
As Harry takes in the three-tiered pink monstrosity proudly beaming in white and yellow “Happy 21st Birthday Hermione”, he simply can’t make himself comprehend where they went wrong. His glare is a green laser cutting to the quick of his brother-in-arms-and-(almost)-law. “I thought we all had an agreement.”  
Hermione would be arriving any moment and here is this fucking cake in a place of honor at the center of the lunch table, surrounded by the “good” china and rising between all of the place settings like an unnecessarily thick, strangely unfinished pink wall.  
The last time Hermione had been presented with a birthday celebration (not counting the birthday luncheon a few weeks ago which – obviously – had been more for Iris’s benefit) was her nineteenth. Then it had been Mrs. Weasley presenting a cake and a large gathering of their (surviving) friends yelling a shrill “Surprise!”  
Hermione had just returned from helping in the efforts to rebuild Hogwarts for lunch, tired and dirty and sad. Looking back, Harry is certain his friend had not even realized it was her birthday. She had startled so thoroughly and screamed so loudly, he had flashed back to Malfoy Manor, listening to her screams and helpless to save her. Several party-goers had been summarily hexed, the cake had exploded, and Hermione had splinched rather badly after a panic-driven apparition.  
Hence the agreement to respect Hermione’s wishes regarding ignoring her birthday.  
Ron rubs the back of his neck, obviously apologetic but also obviously unwilling to fix it. “Aria’s been brushing up on her baking spells and was really excited to do this for Hermione.” There is an unspoken, back me up here, mate; and Harry knows – as the swish and whir of the floo activates – that they are out of time to take any sort of action anyway.  
He supposes a simple cake (no matter how large and pink) is better than decorations and streamers and a room full of guests. And Hermione seems to be doing a lot better. She barely flinched two weeks ago at Andromeda’s when Teddy had screamed upstairs after waking from a nightmare. Maybe, he’s worrying over nothing.  
“You’re worrying over nothing.” Ginny says as she slips her hand into his. The flood roars green and Hermione appears, slightly bedraggled and dusty with a glow to her features he hasn’t seen since . . . . possibly that first train ride to Hogwarts. He returns her grin and engulfs her in a thoroughly reciprocated hug. Something is different about her, he can feel it in his bones.  
He watches her as she makes the round, embracing everyone in turn – Ginny, Ron, Aria (here Hermione drops to her knees to kiss Aria’s bump, “Hello there my darling. I do hope you’ve been treating your mummy nicely”) – before stopping to survey the cake and shrugging to herself with an absent little smile that instantly sets his mind at ease.  
Aria jubilantly explains that she has been wanting to make a cake for the longest time, and it seemed serendipitous that Hermione’s birthday was just there. “Who doesn’t love a slice of cake? And I spent so much time trying to decide which flavors until Ron mentioned vanilla with strawberry. Doesn’t that sound just absolutely yummy!!??”  
Hermione reaches out to give the pregnant woman an additional half-embrace. “It’s a lovely surprise and looks delicious. Thank you, Aria.” Harry shares a grin with Ron as they watch Aria commandeer the entire visit, taking everyone on a tour of the house, exclaiming over this or that wedding gift and the kindness of so-and-so for this picture frame or that throw pillow or those knick-knacks.  
When they reach the finished nursery, Aria’s voice becomes almost hushed as she beams and touches the rail of a new cherrywood cot, softly rocks an old-fashioned rocking chair with a plaid cushion tied to the seat, caresses a white baby-grow with a duckling pattern hanging in the window – a special knitted gift from Hermione. The walls had been painted to illustrate a peaceful forest meadow, the work charmed to reflect the day passing to night while the grass and flowers and leaves bend, wave, and fold depending on the wind speed outdoors.  
None of this is new to Harry who had endured helping Ron build furniture and haul paint cans and cloth stuffs for Aria; but he smiles as Hermione rounds the room, taking it all in before turning – misty eyed – to Ron. “You’re going to be a dad, Ron.” Then she is hugging their best friend about the waist and burying her face in his chest as Ron helplessly, silently looks at Aria and Harry and Ginny in turn.  
He feels the weight of his fiancée as she leans against his side, watching the spectacle and whispering that something must have happened. Harry doesn’t know what Ginny means, but he does know what Hermione is feeling right now. It’s a surreal, bittersweet moment when it hits that the person you’ve known since you were both children is now having children of his own.  
Perhaps sensing the embrace will take a while, Aria ushers him and Ginny out of the room, leaving Hermione and Ron alone. It’s one of the things he likes best about Ron’s energetic wife – that she innately understands the bonds between Ron and Harry and Hermione, that she fosters those bonds without jealousy.  
The three of them make their way back to the kitchen to begin setting the table with hot lunch dishes – a hearty roast beef with gravy, Yorkshire pudding, sautéed vegetables and mashed potatoes. While they work, Ginny and Aria seem to be having a hushed half-conversation that he can barely keep up with:  
“Did you see –”  
“I know! Do you think –”  
“—course, you saw, didn’t you? In the papers –”  
“—so romantic if they –”  
“Neville did mention she –”  
“ – think she’ll tell –”  
“—just have to nag it out –”  
“Oh, if that’s it, I’ll be so happy –”  
“—bet they’re absolutely just wretched –”  
“—disgustingly, beautifully sweet together –”  
“—can’t take anymore eye-fucking –”  
“—strikes me as quite skilled with –”  
“—long as she’s treated right –”  
Harry tunes them out, pouring tea and plating food according to his friends’ familiar tastes. The sound of footsteps on wood plank stairs announces Hermione and Ron’s presences, their faces relaxed and a new easy peace stretching between them. It isn’t until Harry sees it, feels it, that he realizes there was lingering tension between the two sort-of-exes in the first place.  
Ginny grabs Hermione’s hand to playfully drag her to the table, and it fills him with a special sort of giddiness to hear them laugh together. It’s such a simple scene, so mundane yet warm and rich; and everything he had ever wanted growing up, surviving.  
That giddiness bubbles and froths into a liquid wave of contentment as conversation and laughter flows between the four of them smoothly. Harry tells them of the grueling workouts and battle simulations he goes through at Auror training and how he’s enjoying wedding cake tastings a bit too much; Ron passionately regals them of the harrowing experimentation that goes on in the workshop at the rear of WWW, of the jokes currently being developed (a few of which are his own brain children), and George’s prank of the week; Ginny grumbles about wedding plans and quidditch training and the torture her coach puts the team through (though – she admits – Harry says her abs are hot and her ass has never been perkier); and Aria details her last visit with her midwife, her cravings for plain lettuce and celery juice, the difficulty of sleeping on her side when she has been a tummy sleeper all her life.  
The tea runs out and Ginny breaks out a bottle of wine after making sure Hermione is okay for one glass. Harry toasts his friend, wishing her a happy birthday and an eventful year to come. He tells her he loves her because there was a time when he rightfully believed he wouldn’t be able to say anything at all to anyone anymore.  
He and Ron clear the lunch dishes, letting the girls have a moment to talk of . . . girl things. When they are in the kitchen, Harry asks Ron what he and Hermione talked about upstairs. His friend grins and tells him that they really didn’t talk about anything but argued about whether the baby is a boy or girl with Hermione insisting her god-child is a god-daughter (an assertion Aria has voiced as well while Ron maintains Weasleys usually have boys).  
Personally, Harry agrees with Aria and Hermione, simply because Ron deserves daughters. Lots of them. If only to help increase his emotional range – a feat Aria has had some cursory success in. Picturing his best friend surrounded by numerous female-type offspring makes him want to chortle.  
There is also part of him that hopes Ron is right and the baby is a boy, knowing that Ron wishes to pay tribute to Fred with the name of his first born.  
Once the dishes are in the basin and soaking for a good washing later, he grabs dessert plates while Ron gathers proper silverware, a cake knife and candles.  
As they make their way back to the dining room, he hears, “-- took you on a perfectly romantic date but didn’t kiss you? What the fuck is wrong with him?!” Ginny’s voice is a high screeching thing – more outrage than confusion and less concern than disbelief.  
“What the fuck is wrong with who?” Ron cuts in. Harry takes the distraction to eye Hermione’s blush and fisted hands.  
Aria claps her hands and tilts her head to beam at her husband. “Draco!!!! He finally made a move! Can you believe it???!!!”  
Calmly, Harry hands Aria the dessert plates while Hermione visibly straightens and Ron mutters, “What isn’t wrong with that wan –”  
“There’s nothing wrong with him. He was lovely and sweet and he promised me a kiss on our second date.” Hermione speaks quickly, her hand lightly smacking the back of Ron’s head in warning.  
Harry quails when he sees the unholy light in Aria’s eyes as she takes up the cake knife and begins slicing the pink monstrosity, smiling like a lunatic.  
Meanwhile, Ginny takes the first slice and hands it to Hermione. “About bloody time, I say. Being around you two was becoming painful – though I do thank you for the fantastic bit of rough shagging all that sexual tension inspired after –”  
“Did you say something about Malfoy ‘getting back’ from somewhere?” Harry cuts in frantically, his voice cracking like a pubescent boy’s. Ron seems caught between wincing in discomfited disgust and dissolving in hilarity, his face red and pinched.

Hermione’s expression is frozen and blank for a moment, but soon enough, she shakes herself visibly, a blush blooming on her cheeks. His stomach plunges in embarrassment when she seems to avoid his gaze. She’s his sister in everything but blood; and he knows she feels the same way. He also knows that he never, ever, ever wants to hear about her having sex with anyone. Ever.  
“Right, yes. He’s abroad, though I’m not sure where exactly. For work. He left a little more than a week ago; but should be back before next month.”  
Aria hands another dish of cake to Ginny, her mouth pursed but still holding a hint of a smile. “Goodness, is that why he didn’t kiss you after your date?”  
Harry takes the . . . overlarge slice of cake handed to him, noting the pink interior. He wonders if Aria is trying to tell them all something with this cake or if she really does just love pink that much. Next to him, Hermione is gulping some wine. “Did he tell you where he’s taking you for the second date?”  
His friend’s face, neck, ears and hands become flaming red, which is interesting because Hermione had hardly ever blushed over Ron. He watches, bemused, as she takes a large bite of cake and takes her time chewing. She isn’t trying to dodge the questions, he can tell by the tilt of her head, the warmth in her eyes. No, she is taking her time, deciding what she wants to reveal, what she wants to keep for herself.  
It’s something new in her, he’s noticed, this reflex to guard small pieces of her life; but he can’t fault her for it. The papers had never been kind to her; and being open with her life and thoughts had oft-times caused her to be treated as a pariah, a know-it-all, a snitch, and worse.  
Aria is just sitting to dig into her own slice of pink dyed dough, after trimming off every bit of pink icing and saving the white for later when Hermione clicks her tongue and directs her eyes to the cake, her cheeks matching the icing and her mouth curved in a secret little smile that sets something tight in Harry to rights. “Aria’s right, that’s why. And, I’m not sure where the second date will be, just that it will happen when he gets back.”  
Harry leans back in his chair, smug and gratified. “I told you, didn’t I?”  
Ron’s head is a blur as it shifts toward him. “I told her. I even warned that fucking git to drop the fiancée before making a move.”  
Hermione’s reaction is lightning. “What?!”  
Ginny cackles gleefully, “I was the one to confront her about the eye-fuc – I mean the optical fornication.” They all laugh, Hermione’s temporary ire at Ron forgotten in the midst of the merriment. “Seriously though, Hermione, anyone with eyes could see that you two are smitten.”  
“One day you’re going to have to tell us how the fuck that happened, by the way.” Ron garbles around about half of his cake, globs of spittle-soaked cake flying out of his teeth. “He might be less of a prat than he was in school, but he’s still a fucking prat.” He swallows loudly, thrusting a finger toward Hermione across the table. “You deserve better.”  
Harry hides a grin. If only Ron knew of the conversations he and Draco have had at the Ministry. After many exchanges, Harry has come to realize that Draco Malfoy regards Hermione Granger as if she is the sun, moon, and stars; and if there is anyone who does deserve her – even with their past (or maybe even because of it) – Malfoy now comes pretty close. If only because Harry’s witnessed how happy she is with the blond pure-blood, seen how well she’s treated.  
The scrape of metal against ceramic screeches between them as Aria dumps her clump of pink frosting onto Ron’s plate. “Well, I think it’s wonderful Hermione. We’ve been so hopeful that things would work out for the two of you, and now here you are and there’s this glow surrounding you that make me want to just –” She rounds the table to wrap her arms around a giggling Hermione’s shoulders, their cheeks pressed together. “Also, you’ve made me a bit richer so thank you!.”  
Hermione sends all of them a look that flays. “You made a wager on whether Draco and I would start dating?”  
Ginny reaches over to dig her finger in the dollop of pink frosting newly on Ron’s plate. “More like when. There was no question that you would eventually . . . granted he could break the engagement.” She sticks the sugary concoction in her mouth. “Remind me to buy him a drink for that, by the way.”  
“I can’t wait to see you two together!!!! Like I told Ginny earlier, I just know you two must be absolutely –“  
“Wretched,” Ginny smirks that smirk that never fails to make Harry’s pants feel tight. “Just disgustingly sappy.” Ron smacks her hand when she goes to double dip. “I can tell. Malfoy is that guy who is all mush behind closed doors.”  
Harry is inclined to agree with her with the addendum that he’s only mush behind closed doors when with the person he loves. Which just happens to be Hermione. He’s still getting accustomed that idea since – until recently – it was an idea that didn’t exist in his wildest dreams.  
Aria laughs while Hermione grins, “You’ll have to tell us if he’s a good kisser.”  
Ron makes a face. “Please don’t.”  
Ginny knocks his arm, her expression just a notch above evil. “Aria thinks he’s proficient.”  
Endlessly amused, Harry muses that the eye-fucking will only get worse. Ron groans, begging Hermione to keep all Malfoy related PDAs out of his sight.  
Hermione grins, crossing her arms, “I make no promises.”  
They each polish off their cake slices - Ron taking seconds, before Aria announces playfully that she wants her winnings in a mix of pounds and galleons before asking Hermione if a split of 50/50 is acceptable.  
Hermione laughs and tells Aria to keep the money, and Ron knocks back the rest of his wine, saying, “Remember, she’s dating Mr. Moneybags.” Harry and Ginny and Aria punch him for that one.  
Shaking her head, Hermione rises, making apologies that she won’t be able to help with the clean up, but she hadn’t realized it was getting so late and needs to be on her way. “I need to bring something over to Draco’s house, and I wanted to introduce myself again to Theo Nott.”  
“What the fuck is that arse doing at Malfoy’s?” Ron is still rubbing at his left arm, courtesy of his wife’s boney little fist.  
“I believe he’s house-sitting while Draco’s away.” She makes a round to hug everyone before donning her coat. “I want to make an effort to get to know his friends the way he’s done with all of you.”  
Ginny gives her a second hug, holding her a little longer this time and whispering something in her ear that Harry doesn’t catch. Ron follows that up with a kiss to her cheek and another whispered something.  
She’s blushing brightly as she prepares to apparate, waving awkwardly as they wish her another Happy Birthday. As she disappears with a soft crack, Harry is grateful that Hermione is finally finding herself again and appears to be looking toward the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time in Chapter 15: The Grangers and Malfoys meet to discuss a courtship; Draco and Hermione have their third date which includes a wager . . . they also have a little trouble finding privacy.
> 
> Chapter Notes:
> 
> bastardo = bastard
> 
> bella = beautiful
> 
> che due palle = what the heck/hell
> 
> cazzo di merda = dickfaced piece of shit
> 
> puttanata = crap/bullshit/rubbish
> 
> cazzo madre di dio = fucking mother of God
> 
> vins du pays = a French classification of wines, carries a geographic designation of origin, the producers have to submit the wine for analysis and tasting, and the wines have to be made from certain varieties or blends
> 
> anemone hepatica = common hepatica, liverwort, kidneywort, pennywort
> 
> Du ser ut som dritt. = you look like shit
> 
> Du lukter som dritt ogsa. = you smell like shit too
> 
> anethum graveolens L. and celosia agentea = dill and cocks comb
> 
> Solidago canadensis and Solidago virgaurea = Canadian goldenrod and European goldenrod


	15. Jumping on an Empty Stomach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The courtship commences! Draco has a few important discussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long!!! I didn't want to post till BOTH Chapters 15 and 16 were ready and they ended up BOTH being whoppers (over 20 pages).
> 
> Thank you to Karma cookie and Natasha_Rhiannon for their suggestions of city farm and cooking together respectively.

_November 30, 2000_

It is still dark outside when Hermione wakes after barely sleeping at all – her mind too busy, body too excited, and heart too large to rest. Just mere hours ago she had shared her first kiss with Draco, agreed to courtship with him and allowed him to bring her home. There had been a car waiting like something out of a romantic movie – all sleek and black with gleaming chrome, and Draco had made a subtle show of opening the door for her, handing her in, his eyes never leaving her . . . tired but intense. The driver hadn’t acknowledged them, and – honestly – Hermione had been entirely too distracted to care overmuch. A privacy screen and tinted windows gave the illusion of seclusion, something Hermione became grateful for as slow chaste kisses evolved into sleepy nuzzling (Draco) and calming touches (Hermione). They had decided between them that he should arrive at her house on the morrow for 1 pm. She and her mother would divine a quaint and appropriate luncheon. 

Not much was said after that.

The majority of the ride was spent watching Draco Malfoy slumber, holding him protectively against her side and sifting her fingers through his hair. He had seemed somewhat deflated in spirit despite the solid firmness of his musculature, the dark purple beneath his eyes an almost vibrant contrast to his unusually pasty skin, his breath deep and measured. She had wondered again at what he had gotten up to so long away but trusted all would be revealed in good time. 

_How strange and miraculous_ , she thinks now, _trusting Draco Malfoy._ Possibly even stranger and more miraculous than loving him. 

Once the car stopped in front of her house, Hermione’s hand had stilled in his hair as she shifted away slightly to gather herself and her things. Draco snapped awake, his hand reaching out for her. She remembers how utterly flooded with love she had felt as his sleep-warmed eyes met hers and their lips came together in a chaste kiss. She had been quite embarrassed at the quiet little whine that escaped her when they parted, then infuriated when he smirked lazily at her, wordlessly exiting his side to round the back of the car to – again - open her door, handing her out of the car, his hand a warm brand at her back. 

The last bare seconds on her front stoop were etched into her memory and spawned a dogged restless night with fever dreams that had her waking with the syllables of his name banked at the back of her throat, her fingers dancing in the damp between her legs. 

Even now as she shuffles around her morning-dim room, there are signs of arousal in the flutter of her pulse, the stiffness of her nipples, and the searing heat of her sex as she experimentally presses her thighs together. Every nerve seems to be firing, making her movements quick, jerky . . . agitated. She is so keyed up even her toes quiver with some unqualified anticipation. Attempting distraction, she softly sings nonsense under her breath while – submissively _and_ rebelliously - dressing in old sweats covered in old paint marks and oil stains, a t-shirt sporting a faded red signature from Billy Idol and small holes at portion of the stitching (an old cast off from a fourteen year old Sarah). Her socks are white and crowned with her house colors about the top. 

Her hair she will deal with after a shower.

Quietly, Hermione brushes her teeth before creeping down the stairs, holding in a giggle when she hears the distinct snore of her father followed by the light whisper of her mother’s heavy sleeping breath.

For a moment – just a moment, she pauses to take in the brick and mortar of her youth, the roof that she was reared under, the man and woman who made her. They have come so far in the last year. So much - were she to imagine the drab landscape of her life then, she would see cracked earth, devoid of any real life save a few straggling, dry-looking weeds and the occasional carrion feeder. 

Now, her relationship with her parents is stronger and deeper than ever. Everything she had been afraid was lost is still undeniably _hers._ The anxiety will always be there, she thinks; however, she now has several coping mechanisms in her arsenal and the whole-hearted support of her family and friends. Her fledgling business is thriving, and the office space she’s established in the corner of her room is no longer sustainable. She has – quietly – begun looking into leasing a small piece of real estate (with room to grow) to serve as a centralized base of operations. 

And then there is the unexpected (initially unwanted) and thoroughly diverting connection she has found in Draco. 

Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply, imagining the cracked earth of her former emotional environment beneath a nourishing, gentle rain; the intrusion of grass breaking the surface to become a lush verdant carpet; the humming of bees and other insects as flowers rise and unfurl their lively petals; the majestic beauty of large oaks, sublime maples, hearty ash and elegant willows among other shade trees, hawthorn and vine intwined; birds of all colors displaying their plumage; fauna traipsing through the lovely little meadow and watering at a stream cutting through the copse. Her internal world is now a rich forest of love and life where before – temporarily – it was decayed with fear and regret. 

Opening her eyes, she directs her gaze to the front window, seeing the tell-tale burst of red and dark pink fading to orange on the horizon, the ground dusted with a frosty gleam. She smiles and makes her way to the kitchen where she puts the kettle on, gathering the necessary cookware to ready some scrambled eggs, beans and a toastie.

The food and tea fortifies her and the consequential dish washing grants her the mental space to muse about the day ahead, Draco’s return, and the coming discussion about courtship and all it (mysteriously) entails.

Her cheeks heat up as a fingertip absently traces wetly over her lips. She had told him she loved him. 

She doesn’t regret saying it. It had seemed a terrible necessity to voice the chaotic pleasure singing in her blood with her brain and soul near frantic and completely filled with the emotion. She knows it is only good and right that he be told; and there is a certain peace that comes with the knowledge this isn’t a secret between them, that all of her cards have been laid on the table rendering her transparent and deliciously vulnerable.

Of course, she had not failed to notice Draco’s lack of response; and whilst the absence of acknowledgement, confirmation, rejection, uncertainty or misunderstanding is disappointing, Hermione is resolved not to accept his seeming reticence without upset. He has always been fairly stoic, so it isn’t beyond imagination that he would be hesitant to tell of his love (if it exists – she believes it does . . . or something like it). Also, he had been very obviously fatigued last night and the concert had been very loud - even from their vantage outside the auditorium proper. It is very much possible he simply didn’t register what she had said.

Either way, she has to admit to herself that perhaps her confession was a miscalculation. It is extremely early in their relationship for such heavy confessions; and if he had heard her but preferred not to give an answer he might regret, she couldn’t hold such reason against him. Honestly, she is rather surprised at herself for letting the proverbial cat out of the sack so soon . . . before she had been able to thoroughly dissect her emotions – the very guts of them – studying from every conceivable angle until she was sure.

Rubbing one cheek as she sets the last dish aside, Hermione presses her water-cold fingers to heated skin.. More honestly, she knows over-examination and analysis is not necessary.. Maybe . . . silence isn’t either. 

Perhaps sometime today, she will try again. Granted he finally tells her what he was doing and where while away for so long. And kisses her some more. Of course.

Giggling to herself – with a tacit permission to be ridiculous, she shuffles around the kitchen and main room corridor, humming and thinking. Though the house is kept tidy, she really ought to dust and polish a bit . . . maybe mind the floors as well. Of course, she could probably stand to update client files, revise the Board proposal, or prepare correspondence for the coming week; but her nerves are demanding a more physical outlet. Sitting at a desk reading, revising, and writing will do nothing but preserve and build upon the nervous energy already butting against her self-control, fluttering just beneath her skin, within her abdominal cavity, through her limbs.

The winter cold has found the floor, so she runs upstairs to acquire a second pair of socks – these thick and tightly knitted by Mrs. Weasley in a lovely lilac. Her unwieldy hair is brushed to the point of static charge then tied back with a navy bandana her dad had picked up at some auto exhibition a few years ago.

When she makes to go back downstairs to gather the necessary solutions and cloths, the soft murmur of her parents having a morning conversation sounds from the master bedroom. Tears spring to her eyes and her chest tightens as she takes another moment of gratitude that everything has worked out, that she gets more time with them and they with her. Every mundane action, every meaningless word spoken, every common nuisance has new meaning . . . is significant and marvelous in a way magic will never be again.

Because, while she is proud of her aptitude for witchery and counts herself forever lucky to have received the gift of magic and everything that goes with it, this is where she is made and unmade, where her blood flows and her dreams were birthed. It is where both parts of her life began and – briefly – where the most important part of her was given away. She had tried many times – particularly during the months of rebuilding Hogwarts and planning her trip to Australia – to imagine what her life would look like if she couldn’t find her parents, if she couldn’t reverse the memory charm, if they never remembered her or died before she could even try to bring them back; and while that time is blurry and scattered in her mind, Hermione knows now that – though her intentions and reasons were solid – she would never have survived that future.

It is knowledge that makes these seemingly miniscule banalities all the more precious.

She feels similarly about time spent with Draco. After all, she has come to know and adore him through predominantly muggle interactions, their past in the wizarding world left behind as if it were a disconnected _alternate_ life rather than a peculiar fall out from war. In her darkest moments, she sometimes ponders whether they would have found their way to each other so thoroughly and reciprocally if she hadn’t attacked him when he was expecting her mother, if he hadn’t been at the bistro, . . . . if her mother had never invited him to tea in the first place.

Biting her lip, recalling the look in his eyes at the concert before their first kiss, she decides it is probably best to set those useless speculations aside.

Resolutely, cleaning supplies in hand, she begins in the main room, planning her route of cleanliness with the book room saved for last. (She knows the temptation to reorganize will be too much to resist.) The monotonous tasks of clearing knick-knacks, wrinkling her nose at the biting fragrance and bitter taste of polish droplets, wiping and scrubbing, calms her mind and sets her thoughts to order. 

As she moves through the house, glimpses of the outdoors tempt her gaze to frosted windows though snow will not fall for a month or two yet. If she gets close enough, she can feel the cold seeping through the glass. If she touches the surface, her fingers are delightfully, pointedly shocked with the bite of winter. The day promises to be beautifully wrought, a fitting omen if she believed in such.

She grins at Helen as the older woman descends the stairs still in her night dress and covering a jaw-cracking yawn. After exchanging morning wishes, Hermione begins to hum, her voice growing in depth and reach as she works, eventually evolving into syllables sculpted by tongue and teeth. Richard joins them downstairs soon after with a bemused expression and affectionate hugs whilst Hermione belts out songs – oldies, alternative, popular, American country - as she moves from one room to the next, finishing up in the downstairs (including the book room) by eleven and preparing to do the upstairs after a hearty lunch of tea and roast beef sandwiches with crisps.

By then she is home alone, left to her own devices as her parents had left for work hours ago. She is free to dance as badly as she is able and sing as loudly as she wants. There are roughly two more hours till the meeting? . . . conference? . . . _thing._ She’s not entirely certain what term is correct. Regardless, she figures it shall take an hour to complete the cleaning upstairs leaving an hour to shower and dress. (And what _does_ one wear to discuss courtship? Malfoy had not hinted at a dress code nor signified the level of formality for such an assignation.) 

It is entirely too late to send an owl . . . though she could – perhaps – floo call; however, with Theo still visiting, she would rather not admit her ignorance. The slight dark-haired Slytherin has been lovely each time she has visited while Draco was away; however, she is far from trusting him unconditionally (even if he did apologize and recently donated a rather exorbitant sum to her muggle-born integration program). She plans, therefore, to settle into something dressy casual – perhaps her white ruffled blouse (with poet-style sleeves), and navy wide-leg trousers with the embroidered embellishments? Generally, she wore the matching blazer for consults and interviews with new clients; however, for this she will most likely go without the blazer. She doesn’t want to give the impression that their courtship is a business transaction to her. 

As she polishes the banister, moving up to her room where she straightens and dusts and fusses and vacuums, she tries not to wonder if _Draco_ thinks of their courtship as some strange sort of pseudo-marriage contract negotiation. She certainly hopes not. She wants to give him this, wants to show him that as much as he has been open to the culture of _her_ world of origin, she is also willing to learn and adhere to certain of his pureblood traditions. However, she cannot abide her feelings and their relationship being reduced and chopped up – the pieces assigned valueless in favor of material wealth, the carcass placed on a bartering table.

She shakes her head to herself. No. He had stated he wanted to do this because her parents like him and he very much desires them to continue. She is catastrophizing again. Letting her hands fall to her sides, she closes her eyes and forces herself to be conscious of her breath. 

_Inhale._

_This isn’t a negotiation._

_Exhale._

_It is simply a discussion._

_Inhale._

_Perhaps Draco simply wants to declare his intentions._

_Exhale._

_Maybe purebloods subscribe to a certain timetable for courtship and engagement._

_Inhale._

_Why didn’t I read up about this years ago when I was interested in Ron and everyone and their brother was shagging like rabbits in the dorms?_

_Exhale._

_It’s going to be okay. Draco knows me. He knows I will accept nothing less than his genuine affection and consideration._

As she finishes the cleaning, she reflects on how her skin feels tacky with sweat, dust and cleaning fluids, and she’s certain her hair is even bigger than it was when she first tied it back. She fairly skips down the stairs to return everything to their usual homes before returning upstairs to prepare for her shower. 

With no small amount of self-deprecating humor, she starts singing “I Touch Myself” by the Divinyls, hips swaying in what she thinks is a sexy little sashay as she tears the bandana from her hair and runs her fingers through the swelling locks, catching and smoothing knots. She is still singing as she pauses before one of her mother’s paintings (a short-lived hobby picked up when Hermione was five), eyeing it for straightness. 

She has just reached out to move one corner just a bare millimeter, her mouth wrapped around the chorus in a breathy impression reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe, “When I think about you, I touch myself,” when strong hands grip her hips and a hard, warm body presses into her back, caging her against the wall. 

Her heart leaps in her throat the moment she is touched, her entire body fairly vibrating recognition and sensation, his cologne settling in her nose and his breath caressing the shell of her ear, “Was that an invitation, Granger? Because I would very much like to RSVP.”

Every cell in her body feels red hot and deliciously _wanted_ and _wanton_ instantly. She had entertained a small concern during his prolonged absence that their connection – so new and seemingly fragile – would weaken or outright break. However, it became clear – through correspondence and the two-way parchment and (increasingly intimate and risqué) phone conversations – that her half-baked fears were irrational and needless. Her anxieties had then turned to his return and the (predicted) awkwardness of their reunion.

But reality had not been awkward at all. Seeing him standing there under the strobe lights - still and staring, as fascinated with her presence as she had been with his, had filled her with a thrill that shook her to the core while also spreading like a balm over her lingering insecurities. The ease with which they had read each other, reached for each other, fell into each other without hesitation had eradicated the cloaked uncertainties rooted in the depths of her past relationship failures – of being passed over for someone more interesting and beautiful, of not being valued for her whole self, of losing him just when they had found each other.

The moment his lips touched hers – as clichéd and trite as it sounds, even to herself – some indefinable feeling had enveloped her that is somehow separate but connected, complimenting the love she feels for him. It is a warm feeling, achingly sweet but also subdued . . . comfortable and steady, lingering within her even now after hours apart. And even with all of her knowledge, her gift with words, identification of this feeling has been impossible, her heart and head in disagreement for the time being.

Leaning back slightly into the solid body caging her, she closes her eyes, allowing her conscious to float away into the passionate splashes and stripes of red and violet sweeping across the screen of her eyelids. Happiness bubbles through her blood like a disturbed bottle of fizzy drink and her mouth tilts up in an involuntary smile. He is so terribly good at effortless flirtation. She supposes when one is so accustomed to speaking in slippery evasions, double-entendres, slick half-truths and secrets, flirting might come easier. Her habit in speaking her mind, of being blunt and forward in her speech, in contrast, does not lend itself well to the art of verbal seduction.

Cringing inwardly, she remembers the moment she had blatantly propositioned him after one kiss only to be rebuffed. And for that, she doesn’t blame him at all. It is early days in this new arc of their relationship yet. She knows now that, perhaps, she had been a wee bit overzealous in her reaction to a taste of intimacy.

_Still . . ._

He nuzzles her neck and she sighs, his hands circle more fully around her and she runs her fingers along his covered forearms, traces the exposed knobs of his wrists, runs the edge of her nails between his knuckles. When his mouth softly caresses her skin, she arcs her back slightly, pressing her backside more firmly into his thigh. His groan brings her back to herself but only just. She is still utterly and completely aroused – a continuation of this morning, unapologetically rubbing against him in an (unintentional) slow grind, her brain clawing at the near (yet so far away) memory of his playful words.

There are several possible responses that flitter into her over-stimulated mind, all of them quite lascivious and uncharacteristic of her. She bites her lip and breathes, loving the feel of him around her, the uptick in his breath, the unmistakable hardness nudging at her spine. As much as she can - given the condition of her body and the state of her nerves, she considers each rejoinder in turn, ultimately deciding to set flirtation aside in favor of most urgent need.

“You’re early.” She means it to come out in her normal voice. Instead, it is a throaty near-whisper, hoarse and effortlessly sultry. 

His breath on her neck is hot and drives into her skin igniting already enflamed nerve endings. “Couldn’t stay away.” Her breasts are swollen and heavy, her nipples tingling and pebbled, insinuating themselves through the thin cloth of her shirt. She tries to think of ways she can encourage him to touch her there without asking . . . or begging. It’s a rather sobering thought that she wouldn’t mind doing so as long as he delivered the pleasure she sought with such a show of submission. “Also, I thought it prudent to warn you.”

Without even realizing, she is straining up on tiptoe, her calves tight and starting to ache. She sets herself back down on her heels, and the motion causes the back of his thumb to graze against the curve of one breast. She blows out a deep breath, trying to get her bearings, trying to regain her full faculties. “Warn me?”

His warmth is suddenly gone as he steps back, allowing her to turn around to face him. She’s slightly confused at his retreat, but when her eyes meet his, she knows this isn’t over. Her thighs rub together slowly, shallowly. She doesn’t want him to know how thoroughly he affects her. Not yet. His face is adorably flushed and his pupils blown, a thin ring of silver flashing in the electric yellow light of the corridor. “You’re not wearing a bra, Granger.”

She suppresses a laugh but can’t quite stop the grin that slides across her lips. Again, she struggles with how to respond, the many options cycling through her mind threatening to overwhelm. There is also the niggling reminder screaming against the flood of hormones that her parents will be back home soon and while they obviously like Draco, she doesn’t relish the idea of being caught in a compromising situation with him. Last night notwithstanding, Hermione is not terribly comfortable with the prospect of public displays, and she is rather certain Draco is similar.

Deciding quickly, she clasps his palm firmly in hers and drags him (unresisting) into the nearby loo. The door is barely closed when she pushes him forcefully against it, strains on her toes and covers his mouth (really his lower lip as it’s the highest she can read without help) with hers. Her hands are at his waist, her thumbs bracing inside his jacket pockets, her fingers clutching the fabric. He’s wearing another suit, the material providing a sensual silky slide against her fingertips, the prat. She is going to have to transfigure her trousers into a skirt or something.

He bends, angling his head so that his tongue ventures into her mouth before she can intrude into his, and suddenly he’s the one in control, his mouth slanting over hers with expert precision, tasting and coaxing and guiding; and as good as that is, as turned on as she is, what makes her gasp and moan is his hands, trailing with a firm weight and heat from her shoulders, over her curves and back up to brush against the hem of her shirt. His _fucking perfect_ fingers catch the material and drag it up slightly before very deliberately cupping her breasts, supporting their weight.

She tries not to wonder if he can detect the sweat gathered beneath the slight sag, tries not to imagine that she must smell even slightly. Instead, she focuses on the sensual lightness of his touch, of the anticipation and excitement coursing through her. Her breath is uncontrolled and panting, her mind screaming that they need to part so that she can shower, her heart and body telling her brain to shut it.

“ _Draco_ . . . “ It’s a pleading, shuddering sort of whisper she’s never heard from herself before. In response, he steps closer, somehow taking up all the space in the room, his thumbs finding her nipples. No one has ever touched her like this before. The sensation is at once strange and thrilling, somewhat ticklish but also providing a titillating tingle outward to her entire chest. When she had begun imagining the possibility of sex, she had always expected herself to be reserved, nervous, or – at worst – panicked; however, Hermione finds herself unexpectedly delighted and somehow _proud_. 

She strains on her toes, letting him take more of her weight, her breasts pushing more firmly and fully into his hands. His touch, in turn, turns to squeezing and pinching in a ginger, testing sort of way that has her wrapping her arms around his neck, fingers spearing through his finely coifed hair.

Their kisses intensify, his mouth finding the junction of neck and shoulder even as she attempts to nibble on his ear. His magnificent, strong hands slide to her sides, down to her hips, kneading there for a moment before his fingertips find the sensitive line of her spine, his touch sending electric currents straight to her center and down the line of her legs as she shifts slightly to one side, off-kilter. His grip tightens even as she re-centers herself, runs her hands down the length of his torso to the buckle of his belt, playing there. His mouth finds hers again, the little room filled with the sounds of their harsh breathing, passionate whines and moans. 

Powerful, rough hands – hands she now fantasizes about tearing off her clothes and molding her naked skin – descend, reaching to cup and slightly squeeze the round of her arse as she squeaks with surprise. He chuckles as he deftly turns her around so that _she_ is against the door, then reaches even further to grip the seat of her thighs as he power lifts her, coaxing her legs around him in a feat that has her desperate and enflamed her even further.

Lord, thank goodness for her joggers, otherwise he would be directly touching her knickers and the pair she is wearing is the very picture of early 1900s utilitarian. The thought disintegrates instantly when the impact and vibration of multiple knocks rock through her back, and then a muffled, “Hermione? Hermione, darling, are you in there?”

_Merlin be damned._

Richard’s tone is light, questioning and free of suspicion or fear. 

Draco and she part reluctantly, his eyes shadowed dark and dangerous . . . almost possessive. He doesn’t simply set her back on her feet, no. He allows her to _slide slowly down his body_ , allowing her to feel every inch of his musculature through the thick silk of his suit. When her feet are (somewhat) firmly on the floor, she finds that she still can’t look away, suddenly very aware of a yawning emptiness in the vicinity of her lower abdomen. She is breathing heavily, the type of deep inhales and short exhales she might experience if she were to try running a 5k tomorrow; but Draco is similarly winded so she isn’t excessively self-conscious about it. 

He brings up one hand to point toward the door behind her, and she blinks rapidly while stuttering that, yes, she’s in the loo, that she needs a shower and should be out in time, her eyes never leaving Draco’s which are still smokey, deep and dark, _seducing_. Frowning at him, she gestures for him to stop tempting her. He merely smirks that awful, sexy, _evil_ smirk she remembers from their school days as he feathers his fingertips across her chin, budging it up as he begins to lean down for another kiss. 

Hermione stomps on his foot. (Not that it is very effective. His – no doubt – expensive leather shoe barely gives against the force of her bare sole.)

Draco mock frowns at her then waves his fingers at her as if reprimanding a child. 

Meanwhile, Richard’s voice reaches through the door. “You might want to make the shower especially short, dear. Narcissa’s just arrived.” A pause then, “Your mother is in top form. Brought out the good china and Great granny’s antique tea service.”

At the mention of Narcissa, the fire in Hermione’s blood cools. She imagines her eyes to be twin lasers of accusation as she purses her lips at her . . . boyfriend? Intended? Again, she isn’t entirely certain of the official terminology which only drives her ire. Draco merely shrugs, pulling at his lapels and adjusting a cufflink while leveling her with a flirtatious wink as he whispers he _had_ arrived early to warn her.

“I’ll do my best to be out in twenty minutes tops, Dad.” It’s amazing, Hermione thinks, how she could very happily slap that smirk off Draco’s handsome face even moments after snogging him breathless. As it is, as soon as the words are out of her mouth, he whispers,

“I could scrub your back . . . and anywhere else you wan--” She shoves him with a hand on his mouth even as she buries her head against his arm, laughing silently at the utter ridiculousness she has found herself in.

“Very well, love,” Richard says on the other side of the door. “I’ll let Narcissa know of the possible delay; however, I must insist that you send Draco out so that he may also receive his mother.”

Both tenants of the loo shift to stare, shocked, at the closed door before Draco deflates, looking down at her with an unfamiliar wry expression. “Are you _absolutely certain_ there aren’t wizards somewhere in your family tree?”

Hermione just laughs helplessly, cheeks turning hot, before reaching up to kiss his chin and sending him out to greet her father.

***

As Draco steps out of the loo, he is only too aware of his hands (that were just moments ago occupied in the sweet work of caressing Granger’s tits) and his cock (yearning for relief that will not come – pun intended). Richard is smirking – a sharp, telling little smirk – that teases without words and condemns without heat. Had he been anyone else’s father – pureblood, wizard, . . . _dark_ – Draco would have been foolish not to entertain some level of fear and chastisement; however, there is no malice in the set of the older man’s shoulders nor anger sparking in the depths of his brown gaze. 

Muggles, he’s been given to understand, are quite progressive where intimate relations are concerned. And Richard seems even moreso. Thank Merlin.

He follows Richard down the stairs and across the main room. Everything is bright and lovely – the coffee table gleaming, all bobbles and cushions and rubbish in their rightful places. The artificial smell of muggle cleaning potions assaults his nose. Hermione must have been cleaning all morning . . .

Voices, recognizable as his mother’s and Helen’s, can be heard – soft and feminine - coming from the kitchen and dining area. Narcissa says something pertaining to the lighting and how utterly marvelous electricity is though she doesn’t understand how it all works. “Better these,” here she twirls a finger toward the ceiling as Helen supplies ‘bulbs,’ “these bulbs than the fortune we spend every year on candles. Why every chandelier in the house holds over one thousand!” She clucks her tongue, “What a waste of good wax and spellwork.”

Smiling to himself, Draco allows a moment to appreciate his mother’s change of heart and the very real efforts she has made in accepting Hermione, his feelings for her, and the Muggle world she hales from. When he had opened their breakfast conversation with his courtship proposal, she had insisted on observing the old ways – of being his representative – while worrying over whether dressing in robes would be ostentatious or if she should experiment with Muggle dress.

Draco had stated that her presence would speak more clearly than any piece of fabric, that her style of dress wouldn’t matter in the least; however, after a talk with Helen on his mobile – a device his mother had immediately ordered him to attain for her own personal use, she had shooed him to his own home for the rest of the morning with orders to return when it was near time to arrive at the Grangers. She had plans, she said, to explore Muggle London and find something suitable to set her future daughter-in-law at ease.

He hadn’t bothered to correct her use of “daughter-in-law.”

Ever the gentleman, Draco had offered his services as guide around town; however, Narcissa had turned the full force of her ice blue eyes upon him, a haughty tilt to her chin and a familiar hardness in the expression of her brows. “Your father is in prison for the rest of his days, and you have your own life to live. I find myself in the rather terrible and exhilarating position of having to learn independence. Please, allow me the confidence of doing so.”

Chastised (for his mother is indeed a formidable witch, more than capable of making her own way and decisions), he had bade her a good morning before returning home to placate a tittering Theo (whose house(s) were somehow _still uninhabitable –_ something about incompetent contractors and the complicated mess of incorporating Muggle technology into a magical household _)_ who seemed to be ransacking Draco’s closet for “something worthy of the Gryffindor Princess” before threatening to pop over to Italy to fetch Alejandro and set _him_ loose on Draco’s wardrobe.

Draco has not had the pleasure of Alejandro’s acquaintance just yet; however, the lack of firsthand knowledge did nothing to subdue the shudder that ran up his spine at the thought. Theo has shared enough about the man’s obsession with fashion (and his requisite habit of commandeering wardrobes) that Draco was suitably . . . tentative much to Theo’s obvious and thorough amusement.

Returning to the seat of his family legacy, Draco had been (pleasantly) surprised to find a woman nearly unrecognizable as his mother. He had entered her new solar – a lovely addition, wholly hers in a way no other part of the manor was – and fully stopped when she came into view, his life paused for countless seconds as he took her in unnoticed.

She was reading, curled up in an oversized armchair in a green velvet so saturated it seemed almost black. He had never seen her so relaxed, so . . . _casual_. Her posture was less than perfect as she turned a page, the tip of her tongue peeking through her lips in a fashion that had him wondering what she had looked like as a little girl. Her hair was completely down and – through some glamour – windswept, the locks of platinum tumbling lightly down her back and hugging her artfully flushed cheeks. 

Her dress – not robes – was _pink_ , a pale rose falling from the slight angle of her shoulders to wrap over her chest in a lovely silhouette that encouraged the eye to admire the graceful line of her neck, the delicate paleness of her skin. The fabric seemed to glide over her figure, nipping in at the waist and flaring out into a voluminous skirt that left her calves flirtatiously bare. He imagined there was enough material to swish and flow with every subtle movement. It was a dress meant to steal attention, to attract and impress.

Draco still isn’t sure why, but the sight and the realization immediately filled him with a nauseating mix of appreciation and very mild anxiety. Her shoes only added to this hint of discomfort – muggle heels in a shiny, startling copper. 

As he and Richard pass the open entryway to the kitchen, he glances at his mother again, trying to pinpoint the origins of his disquietude. He should be happy for her, ecstatic even, that she is taking control of her life after placidly living under Lucius’ thumb for decades. He should be utterly _pleased_ and _grateful_. She looks so young – easily by ten years or so - and _alive_ , soft and smiling . . . practically ethereal with the light from the near window hitting her as if she is a flower ripening to the sun. 

The contrast to how he is accustomed to seeing her compared to this new facet is unsettling.

Narcissa Malfoy had always been coldly beautiful. Even Draco, who – until Hermione – had counted his mother as the one and only person he loved beyond himself, had often regarded his mother as a bit of an ice queen while growing up. As a child, he had even once completely convinced himself that she was frigid to the touch. (She isn’t.)

As he had grown older . . . as he had unearthed the sterile – sometimes aggressive – relationship between his parents, he had realized with no small amount of grim internalization that Mother was generally unhappy and had been for most, if not all, of his life. 

Being an utter twat during his youth, Draco’s initial reaction to Narcissa’s discontent was to mentally absolve himself from blame. It wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be Father’s either (Father – at the time – had reached the pinnacle of perfection in Draco’s eyes). The only thing to do then was to ignore it. She would come to appreciate how magnificent life was and would become with the rise of the Dark Lord.

Of course, time had proven his hubris erroneous. He swallows down the sudden upsurge of guilt, unwilling to ruin this day by allowing his past demons to touch his future.

After the war, he had turned increasingly inward, reading into himself and analyzing where he had gone wrong, how his actions had affected . . . _everything_ due to his own brand of bigotry and short-sightedness. He had known then – distantly – that his mother was not coping well with the loss of her standing, the loss of her husband, and the increasing distance of her son. Now, watching her laugh fully (with the proprietary cover of her fingers) and genuinely with Helen, he realizes just how lonely his mother must have been during the last few years . . . maybe even the full run of her marriage. 

He closes his eyes, holding back the immediate reflex to self-incrimination, remembering something Dr. Ufuoma had told him weeks ago before he left for Norway: _While loyalty to parents and family is admirable – particularly if that loyalty is warranted and the familiar trust is not compromised, a minor child is never responsible for their parents. Even as an adult child will you seldom be responsible for your parents’ well-being, and then only if you choose to be, only if they are unable to take care of themselves. _

He remembers clearly the barely restrained anger in Helen’s eyes, the buried hurt hinted at the corners of her frowning mouth as she told him of Hermione’s actions at the beginning of the war. He remembers the resigned sadness in Richard’s body language and voice when he spoke of the same. 

The memory of their restrained anguish sends him into a memory– _he had just returned home after completing fifth year. His parents were not there to greet him at the platform, but that wasn’t wholly unusual; and though his mother’s letters had begun to lack a_ certain je n’a sais quoi _in the last few weeks of school – often mentioning certain ‘guests’, their absence was of little concern. His father, of course, was in the ineffective Ministry’s custody. (Knowing that his father, that the fathers of his friends, had attacked some of his classmates – regardless of his disdain for them – had left him feeling conflicted, a sense of foreboding staying his tongue from its usual vitriol for the rest of the year.)_

_Arriving at home via house elf, he had found, in short order, that this perception of coming trouble was accurate. The very air seemed heavier, the walls had become oppressive rather than familiar, the floors – somehow – colder, and every room, darker as if every candle had been doused or was on the verge of petering out. People – mostly men, known Death Eaters and similar folk (some had wild eyes that seemed to consume, others were soft spoken in a way that frightened rather than calmed, and still others had no appreciation or respect for personal space, always touching and speaking to him in round syllables that spoke of unspeakable things)._

_He remembered meeting his Aunt Bella for the first time with a shudder. She would move as if dancing, around and around her audience (or ‘victim’), always ready to strike and armed with the knowledge of what would hurt the most._ (Mentally, he contrasts this with the first time he met his Aunt Andromeda, how the older woman smiled gently with a warmth in her eyes that couldn’t be dimmed even with the deaths of her husband and child. He will always fervently wish that he had met Andromeda first.)

_It was at this first meeting with Bellatrix that he was first made aware of Voldemort’s “kind offer” to “honor” him with the Dark Mark as soon as he reached majority in a matter of days. He remembers looking over at his mother, seated just a few feet from him near a parlor window. The weather had been dreary and gray, and his mother had looked similarly drab and colorless. Her blue eyes were shuttered and blank, glassy._

_She wouldn’t look at him._

_He had needed her to look at him. He hadn’t known what to say or do._

It hits him suddenly in the chest: _She hadn’t known what to do either_.

She had been just as scared as he was. And – probably – just as hopeless, more than lonely.

At least Draco had been able to escape – no matter how overwrought – to Hogwarts at the end of summer break. His mother – he remembers – had been under constant surveillance, never left alone, always flanked or followed by her nutcase sister, her brother-in-law, or some other trusted Death Eater. 

There were times, he recalls with the guilt of hind-sight, that she would catch his eye and stare at him. Then, he had believed her to be silently judging him, measuring him against the meter stick of his absent father. Now, he wonders if she had been mentally pleading with him, trying to signal him that she wanted to talk . . .

She had cried the night Voldemort had branded him, standing poised and blank-faced during the ceremony then crumbling in the privacy of her chambers. The only reason he knew was that he had ventured out to find a pain-relieving potion or dreamless sleep and had heard the thin echo of her screaming sobs down the long hall that separated them.

He had cast silencio for her. Had she been caught in such a state by anyone else in that viper’s nest, she would have been brought to question and doubt forever cast on her if not some other, more substantial, punishment.

The dark part of him that had always yearned for a closer relationship with his parents had surmised she was simply tired of dealing with the ‘honor’ bestowed upon their house and wishing for Lucius’s return. Now, watching her looking so utterly different . . . so _relaxed_ , he questions himself: _How thorough was his focus on self-interest and survival that his perception had been so fully wrong during that chapter of his misspent youth?_

A heated pain blooms in his chest. It is subtle yet complex, a multi-layered thing that unfurls in degrees and ever-increasing volume until he is overfull of it. It is larger and stronger than that weak tendril of anxiety and overtakes it, knocking down his walls, burning them up into nothing. 

Feeling lighter than ever, Draco smiles. He loves his mother, a new understanding unknotting the confusion fueled threads of anger and disappointment for the past . . . He loves her.

He suddenly knows they desperately need an uncharacteristic heart-to-heart discussion, and most likely, he owes her a grand apology. Gold and semi-precious stones may have to be involved. Perhaps he shall have to name his first born after her. (With Hermione’s permission, of course).

Blinking at the thought, he comes back to the present, to his purpose for being here on this day with his mother in Granger’s house with her parents. Richard is smirking at him knowingly and pats his shoulder as if in solidarity before speaking softly, “Let’s not disturb the ladies just yet.”

Richard beckons him into the garage then out and around to the back yard where there are raised growing beds covered in bright tarps and plastic sheets, large pots with leaf-bare saplings and a large cultivated vegetable garden with well-mulched rows.

The frost of that morning had long ago melted, the droplets sparkling in the noontime sun prettily. Closer now, he can see the cloudy outline of markers near each line and pot of plants beneath the coverings, identifying them. The picnic table used months ago for the birthday luncheon is still there, an abandoned cobweb hugging the space between one corner and the bench, gossamer threads highlighted by seemingly timeless crystal droplets. 

Richard disappears into the garage for a moment to bring back two lawn chairs – conspicuously clean. Draco sends the other man a half-smile and wonders briefly if he should start his own home garden. His property isn’t overly large – the house taking up much of the plot; however, he could probably spare enough space for a patch of herbs . . . a pot or two of vegetables . . . a fruit tree. 

“Your clothes are quite fine; however, if you’d like a seat, this one is open.” Dressed in brown slacks and a blue cable knit jumper with the collar of an egg white button down peaking at his neck, Richard seats himself with an affected groan. His gaze is piercing, flaying Draco in a way that is assertive but not uncomfortably so. 

Still, Draco’s palms are suddenly burning and sweating, a startling amount of moisture glistening along the seams of his life, head and heart lines. His fingers itch to pull at his shirt collar and tie. However, he stands, back straight, hands digging deeply into his trouser pockets. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his expression is attentive if blank, a defensive mechanism he doubted he would ever be able to shake even in safe company.

He is abruptly aware that the familiar man before him – a man who had become a mentor of sorts, a man he very much respects – is no longer just Richard, his friend. No, the man seated before him watching him with sharp eyes and a cutting smile is every inch a father looking at the bloke come to steal away his daughter.

 _Fuck_ _me_. “The air is unseasonably warm, isn’t it?” Draco murmurs, pacing back then very nearly vaulting into the provided chair. He rubs his wet palms against his trousers, trying not to _think_ overmuch about his surprising interlude with the aforementioned daughter.

Though Hermione had not heard his entrance earlier, it had been he surprised at seeing her, _hearing her_. Her beautiful voice, the words of that song, the sexy swing of her hips as she walked on the balls of her socked feet, the path of her hands as she traced her own curves, and that single. Delicate. Finger. Reaching to that painting had him hard in an instant, the small amount of blood remaining in his brain allowing the desire to strip her bare and show her his fingers were more than capable of seeing to her needs.

He had only been half-joking about assisting her in the shower.

Truly, he is a paragon of self-restraint.

But sweeter still than that little seduction had been her innocent acceptance of his attraction, the effortless trust as she let him hold her the way he had been wanting for months now. He remembers the barely-there smile that curved her pink mouth, the brightness of her gaze; and he marvels at how lucky he is, how undeserving. 

Appreciation and affection war through him even as he tries (again) not to remember that he had his hands on her bare breasts only _minutes_ ago. Because this isn’t about cheap lust . . . not in the way he knew back in school. More than paltry sex, he wants – desperately – to make Hermione feel the way he sees her: beautiful, sexy, valued, precious, cherished, and loved. Considering how easily such a goal could be misconstrued, he is terrified of fucking this up.

He presses his palms into his trousers just a little harder and sends up a prayer to whoever might be listening that Richard does not deign to bring up the awkwardness of being caught.

As if sensing such thoughts, Richard says, “Relax, my boy. I don’t own a shot gun and, even if I did, I wouldn’t use it to intimidate you.”

Draco only has a rudimentary idea of what a gun is – having seen a few in films and the museums he and Hermione had visited; however, he isn’t familiar with the variety called “shot” or its significance in this sort of situation.

Richard continues. “I may seem quite old, but I do have fond memories of the risqué behavior Helen and I used to get up to when we were dating.” He smiles, his look distant and fond. “I certainly don’t begrudge you and Hermione the same.”

Distinctly unprepared for this conversation (talking so openly about . . . certain exploits just isn’t done in pureblood society, at least not in public or mixed company) and unsure of the direction, Draco moves to divert attention to something else, something innocent and banal. Opening his mouth to ask after the Nova and the new auto frame covered but obvious waiting at the side of the house, Draco falls silent when he sees the look in Richard’s brown eyes.. “So tell me, Mr. Malfoy, what is on the agenda for today’s conference?”

Somewhat taken aback, Draco stares. “Nothing so formal, Mr. Granger. I . . . have already asked Hermione if she would be amenable to courting. Traditionally, our two families would come together to write a contract defining parameters; however, this will not be a traditional courtship. I would not insult Hermione nor you and Mrs. Granger with unnecessary legalities.”

Richard’s expression gives away nothing though his body language is relaxed, open. There is a dirt stain along the cuff of one sleeve and something white and powdery dotting the side of his dark trousers. The trained pureblood in Draco cringes at the mess and yearns to cast a quick cleaning spell. The new Draco . . . the one that knows and cares about Richard as a role model and mentor appreciates the older man’s unapologetic nonchalance. “Good to know, my boy.” And then, “I’m sorry that your father isn’t here to stand by you in this, Draco.”

It should no longer surprise him, Richard’s intuition and kindness. And yet, the words leave him feeling as if Hagrid’s fist has just rammed into his solar plexis. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, rubs the pads of his fingers against the weave of his best suit, leans forward slightly against the sudden pressure ballooning through his torso. 

Draco had thought about a courtship with Hermione before it was strictly allowed. The chemistry between them on that one (full) date had cemented goals of eventual marriage and family in his imagination. The recent period apart had only managed to strengthen his certainty; and thinking of commitment, of the future, had inevitably brought his past to the fore as well – specifically the burden of his upbringing, the traditions he had once believed sacrosanct, and the man who had personified all of the dark, powerful things he had been taught to seek and treasure . . . and summarily had learned to discard.

Swallowing hard against the seeming rock in his throat, Draco opens his eyes. “I wish he were different.” It’s all he can say . . . all he needs to say. 

Richard reaches out to swing an arm around his shoulders across the space between their chairs. “So do I, for your sake and Narcissa’s.” A pause and a sigh. “For what it’s worth, Helen and I couldn’t be more pleased about all of this.” He ruffles Draco’s hair with a sly chuckle. “You make my girl happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

The pressure releases, heat rises in his cheeks, a pleasant candle-flame of warmth ignites at the tips of his ears. He suddenly feels excessively energetic, hands straightening his hair then pulling at his jacket lapels. He wants to say he will always strive to make her happy, that her happiness is everything to him. Instead, “Not as happy as she makes me.” 

The force of Richard’s hand patting his back is welcome and strangely comforting. Lucius had rarely touched Draco and only when necessary. “So when are you planning to ask her to move in with you?”

A bolt of apprehension punches a hole in his gut, and he fumbles to school his features into a familiar self-preserving blank expression. He’s not sure why this is his immediate reaction – to hide, to ready a defense. Richard apparently sees it too, smiling in his assuring way and settling a hand firmly between Draco’s shoulder blades – a non-threatening pressure, a reminder to, “Relax, Draco. This isn’t an interrogation, and anything I ask is simply out of curiosity, not accusation or censure.” He leans back in his chair, the metal creaking with the motion, hands coming up to cup his neck. “In case I haven’t made it clear: You have our blessing and approval if you need it.”

Draco shakes his head slowly. While he is glad to know of their regard for him, it is Hermione’s opinion that – ultimately – matters in this, and . . . “I was planning on asking her tonight, if all goes well.”

At this, Richard cocks an eyebrow, questioning, “Do you believe it won’t?”

Taking a deep breath, Draco quickly weighs the merits of telling or not telling and ultimately decides that Richard is probably the best source for an honest, non-judging opinion and advice. He has a way about him – a cunning ability to read into the heart of a situation or person and break everything down into manageable parts with simple, straightforward solutions. “I . . . During my time in Norway, I was actually working on the base development of a potion specifically designed to cure wounds from cursed objects.” He runs his hands through his hair then grips the strands to pull slightly. “I’ve been told that keeping the particulars from Granger for so long was probably a mistake.”

Though he’s already sitting as far back as the chair will allow, Richard seems to sink even deeper into the metal frame and straining fabric. There is a stillness to him as his gaze shifts from Draco to the garden, alighting on one section before surveying another, unseeing. “Were you . . . successful?” His voice is just a bit strangled, as if the core of him is being held tight and breath is restricted.

Nodding, Draco rises to (continue) pacing, his right hand reaching over to loosen the cuff of his left sleeve beneath the suit jacket. “Yes. It took longer than we had anticipated to find the right species of anticipated ingredients then even longer to formulate an effective incantation . . . Among other things.”

Richard presses fists into his eye sockets, his face flushing, a subtle tremble working through his frame. “Did you do this for Hermione?”

“It began that way,” Draco answers honestly, jerking at his sleeve until the tail end of where the Dark Mark once marred his pale skin is exposed. “But, in the end, I did it for both of us, for Dumbledore and Snape, for the survivors and the scarred, for everyone I’ve hurt and all the people who lost their lives needlessly because Tom Riddle couldn’t handle the reality of his own mortality.” He comes to stand directly before Richard, shows him the disrupted cloud of fading ink. The skull and snake are obscured to unrecognizability and nearly gone now, just the slightest discolouration clinging to his skin, giving the impression of dirt. 

Draco doesn’t flinch when Richard’s hand engulfs his wrist, doesn’t push away when Richard pulls him into an awkward embrace, doesn’t scoff when he realizes that Richard is quietly weeping into his shoulder.

They stay like that, Draco bent over Richard’s seated form with arms around shoulders and hands patting manfully upon solid backs. There is sniffling and shuddering breaths and the odd shush. The cold doesn’t penetrate them. The air is still. The world, hushed.

At some point, Draco closes his eyes and breathes in Richard’s scent – tea leaves and lingering motor oil, mentally contrasts it to Lucius’ bergamot and tobacco. One gives him a sense of peace and well-being . . . the other has his fingers twitching for his wand and the skin at the back of his neck crawling with anxiety.

As if sensing his unease, Richard finally releases him with hands coming up to frame his face and pat his cheeks. The older man’s eyes are blood shot and red, glossy and wet. It’s on the tip of Draco’s tongue to apologize, to fix it; but Richard gets to his feet, smile fuller than Draco has ever seen it. “Thank you, Draco.” A deep sigh, then, “And you have nothing to worry about. Hermione might be upset at first; but if you explain yourself as you just did, I’m sure she’ll come to understand.” And then, a razor sharp grin and a twinkle of the eye. “Where’s the ring?” 

Draco chokes, one hand coming up to cradle against his breast pocket. Richard laughs loudly, slapping Draco on the arm as he starts toward the house, stopping when he gets to the garage door to look back at Draco who hasn’t yet moved. “Well, what are you waiting for, my boy? Let’s get you two a-courting!”

Left alone for the first time since . . . probably the car ride home after dropping Hermione last night, Draco takes his time rolling down his sleeve, applying his cufflink, straightening his jacket. His brain is working, processing the previous conversation and the way it had felt to be embraced so completely by a _father_. He closes his eyes and paints a sky with the colors flowing across his eyelids. 

When he feels centered again - calm, he opens them to find Hermione standing before him – clean and dressed and beautiful. In that moment, seeing the concern darkening her eyes, he knows without a single doubt that this is the woman he’s going to marry. She is the one he will grow old with. She is the future mother of his children. The love of his life. The one he would do anything and everything for, even if it meant putting her before himself and his family, being brave, proving selfless, and stomping on tradition. 

She peers into his face, “Draco?”

He doesn’t answer in words, merely steps forward to hold her. When she melts into him, he buries his face in her sweet-smelling curls, rests his lips just there against the hinge of her jaw. Her hands link behind his back, her chin notched against his collar bone.

Merlin and Morgana, he loves her. He lets the tide of it flood within and over him. How can he possibly tell her? How can he possibly express the depth and devastating strength of his feelings for her? How can he show her the fruits of his labors when it is barely a fraction of the healing she has worked upon him? 

He squeezes her lightly as the answer to the last strikes him. _Love isn’t a contest_.

When he pulls back, he is ready. He smiles and bends to kiss her. “Never better, love.”

They return to the house together, hands joined and swinging lightly between them. Voices and soft laughter reach them from inside. Pausing at the threshold, Hermione glances up at him, questioning and obviously nervous.

Draco smooths her hair away from her face with his free hand, eyes intent on hers, trying to communicate his tender feelings as he leads her into the house asking a loaded, “Are you ready?”

***

“Ready?” 

It is the fifth time someone has asked her such today. The first had been her mum: Hermione had been drying her hair as quickly and completely as she could, knowing that Mrs. Malfoy was waiting downstairs. The second had been her dad as he came in from the back yard, his eyes strangely red-rimmed and his smile holding secrets. Third had been Draco leading her into the house to begin the courtship . . . talk. Mrs. Malfoy had been fourth – a tentative smile on her lips as they spoke alone after the (very short and to the point) courtship meeting. Apologies had been offered and accepted, Mrs. . . _Narcissa_ ’s (bare) hand holding to Hermione’s with palpable hope.

Feeling iridescently bubbly and light and utterly excited about the future, Hermione had not hesitated when Draco had suggested going out to celebrate – just the two of them. Her parents had then invited Mrs. Malfoy to dinner. Hermione had been pleasantly surprised when Lady Malfoy had graciously agreed without a hint of hesitation.

Draco had told her to change into some denims as her good trousers (transmuted into a flowing skirt) were not appropriate for where they were going. She had shot him a questioning glance, but he just smirked, keeping his silence; and when she had returned downstairs to him, his suit had been magically changed into a more casual cream jumper, denims and leather jacket. When they had reached the apparition point, he had pulled a silky length of dark cloth from his interior jacket pocket and requested permission to blindfold her.

Now, after leading her for several minutes, he is asking her - the _fifth_ time - if she is ready. She takes a moment to answer, feeling a slight irritation, focusing on what she can smell and hear. People talking, foot traffic . . . a _scream_?!, something that sounds like crashing metal or jiggling chains, flags or some other material flapping? . . . river sounds, salt water and smoke.

The blindfold is lifted from her eyes and she blinks around her. It is well afternoon, the sun hanging low but still bright. The air is becoming chill rather than simply cold. She shivers and realizes that Draco is pointing over her shoulder. She follows his direction to find -- 

“No.” Her shoulders climb to her ears and she steps back, pressing into Draco’s front, ready to bolt. “Oh no, no, no, no, no.”

“Now, love. Where is that famed Gryffindor courage?”

“On the ground where it – and every other part of me – belongs.”

“It’s perfectly safe, and you wouldn’t be going alone.”

“ ** _You_** are going alone. I’ll be more than happy to watch from right here.” ‘Here’ is in Greenwich near the Milennium Dome, just a few feet away from a blue van whose side is splashed over with the words ‘UK Bungee Club’ and a small tent displaying the same. If she had any doubts as to the business of the corresponding blokes wearing matching blue shirts, the bungee set up hanging from a _bloody_ _crane_ would have clued her in. The sight of the massive thing and the break of a scream in the air as another victim falls has her nerves firing confusedly and her mind wondering – quite seriously – just how far she can manage to travel should she actually run.

As if sensing her thoughts, Draco weaves long, strong and _firm_ fingers through hers, staying her without a word. He pulls her a little closer to the van and the tent and the blokes in blue. “You don’t even have to look if you don’t want. You could bury your head against me, and I promise I would not dream of letting you go.”

While she knows the words are not meant as some grand declaration, her heart trips even as she levels a stern look at him. “Draco, you know very well that I am afraid of heights. I. Am. Not. Doing. This.”

Truly, she doesn’t know what he is thinking bringing her here. The afternoon had been so promising. Once she had finished primping – dressed carefully in her chosen outfit of white blouse and navy skirt (previously trousers) with black kitten heels, Hermione had found herself having a rather elaborate course of tea and biscuits (and pie and apple wedges and cake and . . .) as Draco outlined what courtship meant to him, how he meant to date her seriously, pursue an eventual engagement at a time that was agreeable to both of them. He offered commitment, fidelity, adoration, and family – his and the promise of their own, together.

She had been relieved that there was no document to sign, no negotiation or elaborate blood magic. It was just them with their families discussing possibility and intention. She had been delighted to accept his offer, promising her own commitment, fidelity, adoration and family; and that – as they say – was that.

Her heart had been so full, her eyes glued to Draco’s genuine grin and glittering eyes. 

If only she had known what sort of date he had been planning. She would have schooled him on his obvious miscalculation.

Draco sighs, turning toward the crane with an expression of painful yearning and thoroughly interrupting Hermione’s line of thought. “I understand your fear of heights . . . or rather _falling_ , love.” He sighs again, facing her with eyes glazed over with the unmistakable closed look of occlumency. “I’m afraid of livestock.” He makes a grimace, “particularly those animals with hooves.”

She blinks, completely taken aback. “I’m . . . I beg your . . . _What?”_ Nothing could have prepared her for this conversation . . . for his confession; and while she is utterly curious about the story behind this fear of his, she is also moved, tears prickling her eyes in a ridiculous rise of tender emotion that he would be so honest and lay himself vulnerable to her so readily. 

It is in this moment Hermione realizes just how thoroughly Draco trusts her, and – somehow – that is more precious than the prospect of his love.

“My pedigree and social standing as the Malfoy heir dictated certain accomplishments in my childhood. I was tutored in wizarding history and tradition, pureblood etiquette, art and music, dance and certain ‘noble’ sports such as archery, rugby, and equestrianism.” He squeezes her hand, and she tightens her grip, listening intently. “It was the last that birthed my phobia.”

“What happened?”

“I had been attending riding lessons for three years and had just turned six years old. I made the cardinal error of running behind my seat and was summarily kicked in the head.”

“Goodness!” She reaches up to run her fingertips along his scalp as if feeling for the wound.

“Though my father apparated with me immediately to St. Mungo’s, I was near death. It took five healers working for hours to stabilize me. I had to stay in hospital for two weeks.”

Horrified and utterly grateful for his luck in surviving, she raises up on her toes to kiss him, noses his chin. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, and I’m very happy that you haven’t suffered any ill aftereffects.” She kisses him again, holding him around the waist and loving that he chases her mouth for more. “Thank you for telling me; however, I don’t understand the relevance of telling me at this moment.”

He half smirks. “You asked me to go with you to a farm in _twelve_ of your letters.”

“Only because I’ve always wanted to go and no one ever wants to come with me. Isn’t that one of the perks of having a significant other? Doing things together we wouldn’t normally do alone?”

His smirk widens as his brows curve up high as he shifts his eyes to the crane.

She gapes at him, struck silent. _Slimy Slytherin . . ._ “This is why you said we could grab dinner later.”

His grin is dazzling in its boyish joy and anticipation. “It’ll be over before you know it; and I have it on good authority that you _do_ occasionally seat a broom and play quidditch, so I know you are able to weather short periods off the ground.”

Swallowing against the nausea suddenly gnawing at her middle, she looks at the crane again just as another couple are being lifted inside the cage. He isn’t lying. The process seems to be fairly short – the safety procedure of being harnessed and buckled and tied taking longer than the actual drop. A quidditch game at the Burrow sometimes lasted hours, exhausting her nerves and draining the well of her bravery.

She taps her fingers against her thighs, chewing her bottom lip, thinking. “Why this? Why _today?_ ”

The expression on his face tells her that he wants to laugh. “Figured we could start our courtship with a bang.” He releases a cheery little chuckle, reaching for one of her hands. “That, and I thought it might be fun.” This he says with a little waggle of his brows. His smile deepens until she notices something about his face she doubted she ever had the opportunity to notice before.

“You have dimples!” Her fingers feather into the shallow indentions before cupping his jaw and looking into his eyes, deeply. “Just how long have you been planning this?”

He shakes his head under her hands. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” His own hands take hers, lowering them from his face. “May I see your bag? I slipped something into it before we left, and I think it will help to change your mind.”

Doubtful, she lifts the strap over her head, handing it over. He makes quick work of it, opening the flap and whispering a summoning charm. Her eyes widen when a folio flies into his hand before he hands it to her. Tentatively, she takes it, opens it, reads. It’s a collection of documents going back nearly seven years when the bungee company was first incorporated – safety procedures and records, inspections and equipment calibration journals, Certificates of conformance and incident reports as well as comparative analysis to similar companies. 

She can feel him watching her carefully as she reads, knows exactly when he notices the tears obscuring the words and numbers on the page. It’s muggle paper, the words typeset, with information about a muggle company and muggle safety gathered for _her_ – a Muggleborn – in muggle London to set her at ease even though she’s a witch and he’s a wizard and they both have wands that can do spells if something were to happen, Statute and Ministry of Magic be damned.

And he wants to court her even though she’s a mess and he’s a mess and they have this _history_ and forgiveness and – she raises her head to look at him, utterly beguiled and _I love you –_ she nearly says it again because he gets her, he really really does. He knew she would be scared. He knew she needed data to feel safe; and he delivered just that.

Overwhelmed and trembling, she hands the folio back, watches it disappears into her beaded bag. “You’ll be with me the whole time?”

He stretches the circumference of the strap to pass over her head, settles the strap on one shoulder, and caresses her hip above where the pouch settles against her. “Of course. I’ll hold you as tightly as you need. You don’t even need to look. My shoulder is yours to hide in.” He touches her cheek, presses a kiss to her forehead. “I won’t let go. I promise.”

She swings her gaze to the crane again. The sun is setting fast and she decides that if she is going to go through with this, she doesn’t want to do it in the dark. With a stiff upper lip, she nods sharply, grabs his hand and marches them both toward the van, the tent, the employees.

In a matter of (what feels like) seconds, they are provided Health Warning pamphlets, Terms and Conditions, and other literature even as they are instructed to empty their pockets and remove any loose articles like scarves, glasses, jewelry. Draco is instructed to take off his boots. She unties her shoelaces in order to tie them again extra tight, just in case. 

In a daze and with legs that seem to have transfigured spontaneously into lead, Hermione allows her body to be manipulated as the harness is placed around her and buckled, tied and otherwise secured into place. She looks over to Draco who is undergoing a similar procedure. She notes, with no small amount of jealous heat, his smile, that he seems in complete control of his limbs. Her skin is covered in a thin layer of cold sweat. She opens her mouth to speak but her tongue feels thick and useless, slurring dumbly, “I dunno h’if I c’n do this.”

He pushes the man buckling him in to immediately embrace her, which suits the workers just fine as their harnesses are designed to connect. It is while they are being buckled and leashed to each other that her mind registers what she is seeing and her heart skips a beat. When had they gotten inside the cage? The blue box is small and creaking with every movement as no less than three people in blue shirts flit about around them, checking and rechecking their harnesses and preparing the cord for lift off.

Huddled into Draco’s body both by choice and engineering, Hermione tries to bury herself inside his body, wants to take some of his thrill-seeking stupidity and exuberance for this torture. She’s only marginally aware of him speaking to the employee accompanying them as the cage begins to move, rising with the slightest of swings. One hundred and sixty feet . . . that’s what the brochure had said. All she has the strength of focus for is the icy fear shivering into her bones, the compelling heat of her boyfriend’s arms already wrapped around her, and keeping her eyes tightly shut to the landscape opening up to them as they rise further and further from the ground.

Her own arms are tight around Malfoy’s torso, her palms taking stock of his measured breath – the seemingly constant, _relaxed_ cadence of his rib cage expanding then retracting. The man with them is talking, possibly giving instruction; however, she completely misses it for the pounding blood in her ears. Her jaw is already clenched, the teeth grinding and inducing a headache. 

She just wants it to be over.

And then, Draco’s arms are gripping her tight, an iron band around her and squeezing most of her breath away. An extraneous grip on the back of her jumper – the man’s she thinks – pulls and prods. A countdown, “One, two, three, fi---”

A slight push, tilting sideways. She falls, feet suddenly overhead as if trying to walk on the sky. Her stomach lodges somewhere in the vicinity of her throat and the entire world goes roaring silent. Time ceases to exist for a split moment before her entire body jerks upward – a real upside-down puppet on an elastic string. The motion of bouncing mid-air slows and sound filters back, dominated by Draco’s exhilarated whoops and breathless laughter. His hands are still holding her tightly, securely. She’s afraid she may have dug her own claws into him to the point of wounding. Her heart is racing in her chest. Trying to control her breath, she closes her eyes and grips onto Draco just a little tighter. She is still alive. It’s over. 

A hiccup escapes, absorbed by Draco’s jumper.

It’s not until they are safely resting on the ground, surrounded by the bungee employees as they are unbuckled, unsnapped, untied, and unhitched that she finds herself laughing uncontrollably. Draco is lying alongside her, his hands framing her face, his thumbs softly brushing small circles around the apples of her cheeks. His expression is half concerned and half amused. She tries to kiss him through the loud, body-rocking guffaws but her lips won’t cooperate and she’s too weak with relief (and hysteria?) to do anything but lay there and laugh.

She’s still laughing when they are pulled to their feet (Hermione nearly falling for the nerveless condition of her knees); still laughing as their harnesses are fully removed; and still laughing as they gather their belongings, Draco collecting a digital camera from one of the other men in blue. A new round of eye-watering laughter breaks from her when she remembers Draco had paid one of the workers to film their jump. 

He approaches her once all is settled, his expression still bemused with bright eyes, flushed at the neck and cheeks. “You seem to have enjoyed yourself despite your phobia.

She hiccups again, now giggling and bursting with a chemical energy.. “Honestly, I don’t remember much.” She chortles then slaps a hand over her mouth for a few moments. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

He’s donned his leather jacket again and wears his boots. Even when he turns about and presents his back, she cannot determine if her nails had done any damage. “Are you up to a little dinner, Granger?

Somehow, his reticence in answering does not phase her. She is still a mass of shivering, bubbly nerves as she takes his hand and swings it between them playfully. “I could eat.” A pinch to his side. “ _Now that I’ve survived.”_

He grins, wraps his arm around her shoulders and steers her in the direction of the apparition point. She might be imagining it, but he seems to be standing taller, holding his head just a little higher. His smile – she knows, is utterly genuine, a dimple peeking out at her like a star at dusk. Another wave of relief and _life_ and _love_ flows through her, and she cuddles closer into his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

He kept his promise. He didn’t let go.

***

Draco is gratified when Hermione sighs contentedly when they apparate a few blocks from his home, glad that she isn’t disappointed. He’s unable to look away from her as she skips - _still_ ridiculously and adorably giddy (if he didn’t know this was a reaction to adrenaline, he would have wondered if she was partaking in illicit potions) – around him, stopping only to pat his cheek in approval.

He had chosen dinner at home in concern that Hermione wouldn’t be able to sit through a catered dinner, particularly once she crashed from her high. So, hand-in-hand, they make their way to his townhouse, and he’s unexpectedly moved when she casually kicks off her shoes at the door, immediately making herself at home.

As if she _knows_ that she belongs here. Confidence rolls through him like a wave. Maybe he won’t have to convince her to move in as he fears - granted she can forgive him for his secrecy.

Her giggling has reduced to an occasional chuckle but the air of completely addictive, contagious jubilation clings to her and spreads out. He finds himself suppressing his own laughter watching as she throws herself across the long sofa with a loud groan. He makes a vow to himself: He doesn’t deserve her, he knows; but he will never let her slip away.

“I would dearly like you to cook for me after everything you put me through just now.” She’s watching him beneath lowered eyelids, her mouth curled into a sensual smirk that beckons even as he walks over to kneel at her side. Her hand rises languidly to tousle his already disturbed hair, running her fingers across the back of his neck. He lowers his head to whisper that he knows she enjoyed it, his mouth a hair’s distance from hers, when –

“You really, truly _don’t_ , darling.” Theo calls from upstairs before appearing, wearing only a towel high around his waist and another tucked around his head like a very loose, misshapen turbin. “Draco is a disaster in the kitchen.” He leaps down, clearing the last three steps and salutes like an Olympic gymnast before affecting a dramatically starry-eyed expression. “Thank Merlin for Pidgey otherwise we would surely starve.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco presses a kiss to Hermione’s waiting lips before addressing his friend and temporary housemate. “Fucking put on some clothes, mate.” 

Pointedly ignoring Draco, Theo addresses himself to Hermione who is – quite literally – bursting with suppressed mirth. “You look quite piqued, dear. Now that you have supped upon the altar of _usque ad mortem certa plummeting_ , have you made the full conversion?” His face screws up into a tragic mask. “Think of the _children_ , Granger.”

Hermione is laughing again, her torso levered on one arm. “I didn’t think anyone could possibly be paler than Draco. I stand corrected.” Her expression turns indulgent. “How is it you live in Capris and have failed to tan?” Gasping, she drapes her arms across Draco’s shoulders, and he couldn’t be more charmed to see her like this – silly and playful and dramatic with his childhood friend. “Is it possible you are part vampire?”

Draco snorts as Theo adopts an air of offended arrogance, pointing his nose to the ceiling and pivoting towards the stairs he’s just come down from. “I will have you know my skin regimen is of the highest caliber and quality; and pasty pale is all the rage in Capris, particularly in contrast to my very masculine dark body hair.”

Hermione’s humored shriek damn near pierces his ear drum, but it’s worth it when she says, “Are you referring to the mangy _carpet_ on your chest or . . . ?”

Draco watches Theo suck in his lips, eyes shining with mirth. “Alejandro loves this carpet, darling.” He wiggles his fingers toward the equally dark hair on his head – covered as it is by the towel. “What’s your excuse?”

Hermione gasps deeply, collapsing dramatically on the sofa, howling with laughter; but Draco can see she is tiring out, her brain most likely addled by the excitement and fear of the evening in addition to a lack of sustenance or drink. 

At the top of the stairs, Theo gestures to him in the dim light, mouthing ‘ _Did you give her something?’_ before miming holding and drinking from a bottle.

Draco glowers, not appreciating the question or insinuation at all and choosing not to entertain by answering. Instead, he tells Hermione he’ll be in the kitchen getting something together, “Rest here, and I’ll fetch you some tea to start.” 

Once he’s safely in the kitchen, he explodes into his own giggles and choking euphoria. Today couldn’t have been more perfect if had dreamed it. Part of him refuses to believe any of it was actually real, that this is his life now; and then, he catches his distorted reflection is the dark glass of the oven door and stops. 

He hadn’t been joking when he told Hermione a small eternity ago that his reflection made him physically ill; and for the most part, he had been successful in avoiding his image overmuch in the time between. Now, he doesn’t turn away or avert his gaze. He studies, tracing the lines of his face with his eyes, the shape of his nose, his familiar hairline and the slope of his brow. 

He smiles at himself, overcome by the realization that he’s _happy_ and _proud._ He chuckles, breaking the quiet of the kitchen as he notes the rare appearance of his dimples – the revelation Hermione had been so taken with until the bungee had distracted her.

He doesn’t feel sick at all.

Swallowing against the bubble of emotion expanding in his throat, he surveys the kitchen with a potioneer’s eye. It seems well-stocked (not a surprise considering Pidgey is unfailingly loyal and serious about caring for his Master). He’s confident he can come up with something . . . although Theo wasn’t lying – he really is shite at cooking. He debates calling on Pidgey. The house elf is officially in Draco’s employ; however, tonight Pidgey is on loan to Astoria who is desperate to impress a young wizarding couple she recently began dating.

“Can I help?” Hermione sneaks up on him for the second time that day, and he marvels that he didn’t jump or scream. The manic humor is still there in the spark of her eyes and the flash of her teeth; but she isn’t actively laughing or giggling or chuckling. The anxious shaking of her limbs has calmed to a very slight tremble, the lines and posture of her body softened and hinting further at an encroaching fatigue.

He smiles, grateful. “Of course. Otherwise, we may not end up with anything edible.”

She shakes her head, looking into the pantry then the refrigerator. “I can work with this.” He watches as she deftly moves around his kitchen, pulling out several items: vegetables, some raspberries, a container of something that looks like cream, and a package labeled ‘fish’. Without preamble or question, she washes her hands and unhooks two aprons from Pidgey’s collection near the basement door, handing a black apron with the words “Mr. Good Looking is Cooking” to him. (Hers is red, taunting, “Your opinion wasn’t in the recipe”). 

Draco doesn’t don his apron right away, too engrossed in watching her work with such confidence it’s as if she’s been in this kitchen a million times. He knows that she visited Theo often while he was away, knows about the altercation with Blaise; but he can’t account for her familiarity with this room. 

She sets out two cutting boards, two knives, a produce washing station. When she notices he’s not moved since she entered, she looks back at him in question. “I thought I was just here to help. Can you chop the vegetables?”

Chastised and blushing - though he’s not sure why, he apologizes under his breath, approaching as he slips off his leather jacket, ties up the apron around his waist, rolls up his sleeves. Pointedly washing his hands, he asks her to pass a towel and that’s when she sees it: the thin gray cloud where his Dark Mark once proclaimed him a Death Eater. 

He knows she’s seen it because her entire body freezes as if in a full body bind. His heart stutters as he watches the expression change on her beautiful face. Confusion then disbelief followed by shock, finally settling on an excruciating hope tinged awe. She lays her knife down slowly, touches the almost clear skin, tentative and gentle, drawing little circles and figure-eights, silent. When she finally meets his gaze, her eyes are wide and wet, her mouth trembling around her words as she murmurs, “Is this what you were doing while you were away?”

“No.” He doesn’t want to talk about this now; however, perhaps now is the best time. She’s obviously tired which can potentially complicate things should she prove irritable. She’s also hungry – another factor that could work against him. In truth, he wants her fully awake and sober when she hears everything. He never wants her to look at him and think she is being manipulated. He never wants her to think his penchant for self preservation extends to orchestrating her thoughts, opinions, and/or actions. He never wants to betray her fragile trust, not after fighting so hard to earn it. “Just a happy side result.”

She wipes her eyes, turns away from him to resume chopping a carrot. “Will you tell me?” Her voice is soft, as if speaking any longer will break something tenuous.

“Yes. Tonight.”

She nods, silent again, then looks over at his handiwork. “You really are a disaster when it comes to cooking.” Her smile is pale but there, her eyes soft like her voice, luminous. 

“I never claimed otherwise,” he tries. The air between them isn’t exactly awkward, but it is no longer the easy, affectionate rapport of moments ago. 

She tells him to stay where he is with his half of the vegetables as she quickly minces a few cloves of garlic, dices a tomato, and chops an onion with lethal efficiency. Wiping her hands, she then steps behind him and drags her palms down his elbows to his hands, molding his grip on the knife and his hold on a zucchini. She guides his motions, her body pressed to his back, the scent of her hair overtaking that of garlic and onion. 

Her fingers are small but sure, strong and quill calloused. She instructs as she moves his knife hand, her face just out of his perview as she cranes around him to make sure the chopping is done safely. 

He’s suddenly very gratified he didn’t suggest cooking spells. It’s more than enjoyable, having her close, being held by her, her scent in his nose and her warmth in his grasp. There is nothing sexual or even flirtatious in her actions. She’s simply being the insufferable swot she’s always been (and he secretly hopes she will always be). Honestly, he is a little aroused by her and the domesticity of cooking together (a happenstance that is only right and natural now that they are an official courting couple with the blessings of both their families). 

Soon enough, everything is washed, chopped, sliced, oiled, seasoned, cooked, and _ready._ They dine on poached fish and a vegetable stir-fry that has Draco’s mouth watering and Theo stomping into the dining room (thankfully clad in pajamas), demanding a seat at the table.

They eat. Draco and Theo argue and banter and take the mickey out of each other; but Hermione is oddly quiet, occasionally glancing up at Draco with a look he can only describe as _cautious._ His heart drops a little and the food tastes like dirt on his tongue as he begs to no one, _I can’t lose her. I can’t. Please, please let her understand._

Since they cooked, Theo offers (after being prodded by Draco) to take care of the dishes; and Draco uses the opportunity to escort Hermione into the main room for a little privacy.

He’s just seated himself when, “Were you trying to create a potion for my scar, Malfoy?” Though she is visibly tired, her eyes are focused, taking everything in. He isn’t surprised she’s divined the truth. She is too clever by far to allow ignorance.

He offers his hand, bidding her to sit with him. There’s a moment that he feels as if breath is just out of reach while he waits for her to take his hand, afraid that she will judge his project harshly and decide to leave him only hours after agreeing to court. That constricting dread is familiar, reminding him of the many, many times he would slowly climb up the manor stairs, sweating and imagining his shirt collar as a noose . . . his throat going dry and his legs weakening as his father’s study came into view . . . seeing the look of abject disappointment and disdain – _rejection --_ on Lucius’ face before he even said a word of greeting.

She must have read his turmoil because she doesn’t take his hand, instead stepping close and lowering herself into his lap and embracing his shoulders whilst resting her head against his neck. He doesn’t even realize he is trembling until he clutches her closer and can see the tremor working through his arms and hands. “Yes . . . at least, in the beginning.”

Her hold on him tightens slightly as she takes a deep breath. “Tell me.”

So he does, explaining how her offhand comment about muggles having their own brand of magic spawned the idea to explore possible muggle-based potion ingredients; how he had made contact with Rosemary in America through Longbottom and her Aunt Oslo through his assistant; and the eventual expansion of his goal from healing the damage and ongoing pain his aunt had wrought on Hermione to potentially healing the lingering cursed wounds of everyone branded by the war.

He tells her of the meetings he held with Rosemary and Oslo prior to setting up the lab in Oslo’s basement, of getting to know Iris, the arithmancy involved and the brewing/testing plan. “I decided sometime then to keep everything to myself,” he sighs, continues. His reasons were many: “I didn’t want you to believe my attempt was a critique on your own. Nor did I want to get your hopes up. I . . . wanted to succeed, desperately – mostly to give you the option of erasing the physical evidence of your torture but also . . . as I delved deeper into ancient muggle remedies – poultices, tonics, and herbal teas – I knew I needed to do this on my own. I had to be the one to figure this out. It wasn’t . . . I just . . . It was an imperative I felt down to my bones. And I knew that if I told you, you would want to help and I couldn’t have you stretching yourself like that or taking over what I had come to think of as _mine_.” 

He doesn’t say that he had come to think of his work on this pet project as a sort of penance. He doesn’t say that his self-worth hinged on its success. These are intimate thoughts better left for when they are well and truly alone.

Hermione hasn’t moved at all since he began speaking, still seated warmly upon his lap, still holding fast to his shoulders, her head still buried in his neck. Her fingers are playing with the hairs at his nape, and it occurs to him to marvel – once again – on the easy physical affection Hermione and the rest of the Grangers give so easily. So different from his own family . . . his own social circle. His parents would have said such unnecessary coddling was beneath them, reserved for the humbled masses whose sad lot in life encouraged the degradation of such “creature comforts.” 

Draco finds that he prefers those “creature comforts” to the hands-off, distant approach of pure-blood tradition. Internally, he vows to himself that he will hold his wife and children close, laugh with them, talk with them, play with them. His house will be a hub of joy and activity and _noise_ rather than stiff propriety, overly regimented schedules and protracted silence.

“Say something,” he whispers.

The various scrubbings and splashings and Merlin only knows what else Theo is orchestrating in the kitchen (no doubt magically) fills the silence as white noise, and Draco focuses on that to keep the contents of his stomach from making a reappearance. The longer she fails to respond, the tighter his throat seems to constrict, choking him and making it difficult to breath. His brain floods with the possible ways she could reject him, the many and sundry things she could say or do to destroy the little pocket of confident happiness he’s been able to build with her. 

He wonders if she knows just how much power she has over him, questions if she can even begin to fathom the extent and depth of his dedication to her. Courtship is merely the first step of a plan he has devised to show her. How utterly tragic would it be if he has already ruined his chance with one (well-intentioned) secret.

Slowly, Hermione shifts in his lap, coming to rest in a full straddle across his hips. She’s so close, her pelvis flush with his, her bum calling to his palms. He bites his tongue when his dick twitches beneath her blanketing warmth; but Hermione doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss as she peers into his face with a decidedly contemplative expression. “Granger --?”

“I can’t believe the whole time you were with my aunt and neither of you told me.” She toys with the collar of his jumper, brow knitting fiercely even as she sinks two fingers behind the woolen material to trace his collar bone. “Though . . . now that I know, it explains a few things.”

For a moment, they just look at each other. Her expression is soft, curious . . . _vulnerable_ , a reflection of his own. He sighs, bends slightly to rest his forehead against hers. “You’re not angry.”

“No. I want to be, but I know you didn’t do this for horrible reasons.” She cups his jaw with her hands and tips her head slightly to brush her lips against his causing a pleasurable (relieved) tingle to enliven his flesh and skip his heart. “Besides, I’ve been keeping a secret too for . . . basically the same reason – didn’t want you to take over or, worse, do everything for me.”

Somehow, he is not in the least perturbed. He can breathe easier now, his muscles suddenly feeling overused and aching as he releases the tension there. Tilting his head slightly, Draco raises his eyebrows at her, questioning.

Clearing her throat, Hermione looks adorably giddy again though still subdued with fatigue. He’s not sure how much longer she’s going to last before collapsing. “I leased a little property – office space. I also hired Dean Thomas and Tracie Davis as consultants so that I can focus more on securing an approval for the new Muggle Studies curriculum, and –” She takes a deep breath, shooting a sheepish look before continuing, “I simply didn’t have room in my bedroom anymore for files and such . . . and many of the parents have expressed a demand for a centralized location for business. It will also give me the opportunity to maybe develop a parent meet-up, maybe? Oooh, perhaps I can create some sort of seminar to help parents of magical children deal with –”

“Granger.” Draco grins as she stops, blushing and placing a hand on her mouth, a muffled ‘Sorry’ sounding through her fingers. “That all sounds wonderful. I . . . admit, had you told me you were looking for a property, I might have bombarded you with choices and I may have planned to surprise you with a purchase or even gifted you with a Malfoy property, so . . . you weren’t wrong in keeping this from me until all was done.” 

She sits back on his thighs, smiling at him now. “And I can admit that, had you told me of your research and experimentation, I would have wanted to help . . . and probably would have been a constant drain on your patience, giving you more sources and possibly introducing tangent subjects.” She mock cringes, her thumb skimming across his bottom lip softly. “In all seriousness, though, I have enough respect for you to restrain myself, so please tell me next time.” A beat then. “Obviously, we need to brush up on our communication.”

Draco barks out a laugh before pulling her firmly into him and attacking her mouth with his. He’s beyond relieved, wholly grateful and so. Fucking. Hard. because she doesn’t hesitate, grappling at his shoulders with her nails then mussing his hair and sucking at his lips, his tongue before soothing it with hers and nipping with her teeth – giving as good as he is. Soon, she is grinding down on his growing erection; and he groans at the stimulation as well as the accompanied tightness of his trousers.

His mouth had just begun to explore the graceful curve of her neck when Theo obnoxiously calls, “Is everyone decent?” Then, “While I have no objection to viewing either of you starkers, Alejandro shall never forgive me if I partake of the pleasure alone.”

Hermione sinks away from his lips, her shoulders shaking with delirious laughter even as Draco tries not to think about the near-painful state of his cock, grumbling about throwing the smarmy bastard out on his arse. “Shut It, Nott.”

“Don’t you glare at me like some irate fishwife, Draco Malfoy. I recall, on a handful of occasions, your willful intrusion of our dorms while I was carnally involved.” 

At this, Hermione completely loses it, tumbling off of Draco’s lap onto the cushions and screaming with laughter, snorting when she inhales between fits.

Shaking his head, Draco moves to give Theo a two-fingered salute but pauses when he catches a glimpse of tender affection on his best mate’s face as he watches Hermione giggle helplessly at nothing. Knowing Theo loves Hermione too _almost_ makes up for the interruption.

Pretending he hasn’t seen anything, Draco lays a hand on Hermione’s side, tracing from her ribcage to her hip. Her giggles are dying down and her eyes are more closed than open. He murmurs to her that he’s going to fetch her some night clothes before bypassing Theo to run upstairs to his bedroom, turning down the duvet and collecting shirt and boxers for Hermione to change into.

When he returns, Theo is sitting next to Hermione’s huddled dozing form as he raises a finger to his lips in a hushing gesture. He can hear her even breathing and knows that if she isn’t yet asleep, she will be soon.

Theo grins in an overbearing manner, “Tired her out, eh? Whatever you two got up to must have been quite diverting.” 

Carefully, Draco shifts her, lifts her close, cradles her like the precious woman she is. “I asked her to fall with me.” Turning toward the stairs, he doesn’t entertain Theo’s – no doubt – provoked expression. Instead, taking the steps to the second floor with care. The semi he had believed subsided awakens again with the sensation of her breath on his neck, her body in his arms – sleep warm and alluringly soft . Ignoring it with a vicious sort of determination, he carries her to his bedroom, settles her gently on his bed. Her feet are socked and otherwise bare so he focuses on simply making her comfortable before covering her.

His heart is full, seeing her so comfortable in his bed, knowing she isn’t angry or regretting their relationship. Certainly, there is more between them to discuss – whether she wishes to use the potions he’s formulated, how he owns the formula and intends to publish it once medically certified. It’s a fairly simple brew, one any graduate of Hogwarts with only a 4th year level mastery can successfully complete. He will never make a dime from the formula. He doesn’t want to. Rather, his wish is to make the brew available to anyone and everyone. 

He also wants to spend more of his time exploring further potion possibilities with largely muggle ingredients. It’s actually rather disappointing and shameful just how limited potions ingredients have been for centuries. Distantly, Draco wonders how even Snape – a half-blood – had missed the opportunity for experimentation.

Once changed into his pajamas, he summons pillow and blanket from his closet. He’ll sleep on the couch as his second guest room isn’t furnished just yet, and he would never presume a lady’s permission. 

Indulging in a kiss to Hermione’s forehead, an inhale of her scent, Draco whispers a good night before shutting off the lights and stepping toward the door. A soft murmur shaped like his name gives him pause. Hermione is levered up on one elbow in the dark, her eyes half-closed as she holds out a hand to him. “Sleep with me?”

He doesn’t question or hesitate, dropping the blanket and pillow to climb into his bed and pull her into his arms. She settles against his shoulder as if she has slept there for years, sighing contentedly and promptly falling asleep.

He doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: It's the END!!! Which means Hermione's about to lose her virginity.
> 
> NOTES: 
> 
> The bungee - I researched this quite a bit and the bungee company I used for this scene is actually real, they really do jumps in that location and they have been in operation since the 1990s. (BTW, I'm sure some will be pissed at Draco for being so insensitive as to celebrate with something Hermione has a phobia of, but I personally believe in facing your fears and Draco will be facing his too. They are stronger together than apart XD). Also, I share Hermione's fear of heights but I take EVERY opportunity to try to conquer it so I tried my best to describe that feeling when you're scared to effing death and then take the plunge.
> 
> usque ad mortem certa plummeting = Plummeting to certain death (in Latin)
> 
> "salutes like an Olympic gymnast" - you know one of the Grangers had him watch some of the 2000 Summer Olympics


	16. Lamb on a Spit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A weekend at Theo's villa. Hermione has some wicked plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING WARNING WARNING SMUT SMUT SMUT WARNING WARNING WARNING
> 
> I don't know if you're 18. If you're NOT yet 18 or older, please do me a solid and don't tell your mother you read this. XD
> 
> Well, ladies and gents, here we are. The last chapter. I can't believe this story ended up being so long (along with Tea). I originally set out to write a fic focusing on Dramione through the lens of Hermione's parents and their struggle to overcome the memory wipe. I don't know that I succeeded in that particular goal but I can't say I'm unhappy with the result. 
> 
> I will say that I didn't get to put in everything I wanted, not everything is resolved as tightly as I would have liked; but I'm happy with things as they are. Everything still dangling will be mentioned in the NEXT installment (yeah, you read that right): A Wedding with the Malfoys. It won't be as long as the other two - probably no more than 6 chapters (if that). I don't know when it'll be up, but know that it's being worked on ^_^
> 
> I will also be posting a one shot for the Dramione Pumpkin Spice Fest so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> AAAAAANNNNNDDDDD, I will also be working on ANOTHER multichapter Dramione fic that I've been planning for awhile now. This one will be dark and feature some disturbing things, but it will also be a romance. Sneak Peak at the end of this chapter (sort of)!
> 
> ntf, I did not forget that I owe you a missing moment/one shot from this universe. You previously asked for either something with Draco and his friends, Draco and Hermione's friends, or an expansion of Harry's birthday at the public pool. Now that the story is done, is there anything in particular that struck your fancy or would you like one of the above?
> 
> I would like to give a heartfelt thanks to everyone who commented, kudoed, emailed, and just otherwise made this experience a JOY. Thank you so so very much for your stories, your patience, your encouragement, and your TIME. This fandom is truly amazing!

_December 29, 2000_

“Did you see this, Draco??? The bath is the size of my office!!!” She’s roaming through her guest suite (Draco is already plotting revenge for Theo’s insistence he and Granger have separate spaces roughly 5 km away from each other, alarm and identification wards around the common area he would have to tread discouraging any ideas of sneaking around), one second marveling at the view of electric blue waves and cooing over the cloud-soft extra-large king sized bed the next. “Do you think it’s similar to the prefect’s bath? With all of the soaps and scents and oils?” Her face is bright with anticipation and excitement, and all he can think about is that this is the first time they have been alone together in privacy for over a month.

_Cooling moisture on his skin, warm eyes searching his, her face all seriousness. “I want you, Draco.”_

She had uttered those words the morning after their courtship agreement. He had just been out the shower, naked as the day he was born save for a lone towel slung low on his hips and still recovering from wanking himself damn near raw under the steaming hot spray.

“There’s a French Press and a bag of Kopi Luwak coffee beans like a luxury resort!” She crosses to the balcony, throwing open the French doors and leaning against the hand-carved marble balustrade. “Merlin! Theo has a _yacht_!?”

_Staring at her stupidly, his mind blank. He had woken up to her shape and warmth in his arms, gone for a run to attempt reigning in the raging desire heating his blood. Only to return, to shower, to wank – his mind’s eye painting her into the scene, all wet and nubile and --_

_“I want you, Draco.”_

Their relationship had deepened since their courtship had been agreed upon and sanctioned by their parents. Hermione now spent every night at his townhouse, in his bed. Two drawers and a third of his closet space were now filled with her things, a green and yellow toothbrush now sat on the lavatory, her hair had begun to clog the drain of his bath.

Hermione had agreed to move in with him permanently five days after he had broached the subject, though they had mutually decided to postpone the bulk of the work until Theo was safely ensconced once more in his own home. Which – happily – coincided with this little jaunt of a holiday.

Clearing his throat, Draco attempts to get his (current . . . months long) arousal under control. “It’s a new addition. Mostly for Alejandro.” 

_She’s asleep when he walks into the loo, just awakened when he returns. She is adorably mussed, sitting up and rubbing her eyes in a picture so innocent he almost feels guilty for the filthy things he wants to do to her. He catches her eye, the soft blink before she realizes his state of undress._

_“I want you, Draco.”_

Her smile is bright and careless in a way that warms his heart, knowing that they have both worked so hard to get to a place of functionality and joy. Together. 

Despite spending their nights together these several unbelievably near-blissful weeks, they still keep Tuesday luncheon sacred between them . . . though lately they have sometimes been joined by Dean Thomas, his mother, the Potters and Weasleys, and – on one memorable occasion – Theo and a visiting Alejandro. 

Alejandro had loved Hermione the moment they laid eyes on each other, the two carrying on as if they were lifelong friends. And though their seeming cosmic ease with each other rankled Draco slightly, he had come to appreciate the Hermione had found in Alejandro something she had been missing throughout her youth: a girlfriend. 

Certainly, there is Potterette and Lovegood; however, those two are just as scarred by the war as any of them, their friendships similarly weighted with the trauma. Pretty in Pink may not have fought in the war, but she was there on the outskirts, watching it unfold and supporting from the outside. Her lifelong experience and relationship with magic is wholly still wholly different than Hermione’s whose knowledge of magic was delayed by the circumstances of her birth. 

Alejandro, a muggle, had a similarly delayed knowledge of magic, and is free from any connection to the war. He doesn’t revere her as a savior, isn’t interested in gossip surrounding her, approaches her without kid gloves or delicacy and doesn’t expect her to have all of the answers.

Once, after waking, tear damp and shaking in the middle of the night, Hermione had told him – her voice soft and full and wobbling – that she often dreams of the Hogwarts library. She is there, searching the stacks and every book she opens is full of blank pages. Cuddling impossibly closer, she said that it bothered her so much she had told Dr. Ufuoma.

Her eyes swimming in tears that would not fall, Hermione had sought his eyes in the darkness, craning her neck slightly upon a pillow to see. She had confessed that – while her love of books had always been part of her personality – the true reason she was constantly in the library was much less about love and much more about fear: with Harry and Voldemort and the war they knew was coming, Hermione became obsessively paranoid that she wasn’t prepared enough, didn’t know enough, somehow missing something vital and her ignorance _cost someone their life._

Even today, he closes his eyes against the memory, unable to find the words. That night, he had simply cradled her into him and pressed his lips to her forehead, sifted his fingertip through her hair.

“Buonjourno my lovelies!” 

Draco grimaces to himself. _Speak of the devil._

Alejandro is a whirlwind of color and glitter as he enters Hermione’s suite, sashaying to Draco first with “gimme” hands before taking Draco’s face in his palms and kissing both pale cheeks with rouged lips. The native Italian man is short – only a few fingers taller than Hermione – with a small build, olive skin framed by clipped gjmblack hair so dark it seems to absorb light rather than reflecting it, and luminous pale green eyes. A trained fashion designer and clothier, he is impeccably dressed and possessing an unconscious liquid grace that belies his bombastic personality. “You are settling in nicely, no?” He looks around, his welcoming grin falling into a disappointed line. “And where is the _principessa leone?”_

_“I want you, Draco.” The bold gravity of her face, the smoldering depths of her gaze. His regal lioness, his Gryffindor queen. His. He would not, could not stop himself. He didn’t want to. Every part of him calls for every part of her. Pulling her to him roughly, he kisses her with a ferocity that shocks him, forces a surprised little cry from her. That sound immediately brands itself on his eardrums, and it becomes an imperative to force that sound from her again and again and again._

“Alejandro?” Hermione steps back into the main receiving area, her face practically incandescent. Theo’s fiancé crosses the room in a quick shuffle, grabs her hands as they exchange air kisses, giggling and screeching like firsties as they become reacquainted. 

Rubbing one hand over his two day old scruff, Draco watches Hermione’s glittering eyes and laughing mouth. She’s so fucking beautiful. Amazing. Strong. Brilliant. He couldn’t wait to get her alone.

_“I want you, Draco.”_

_Somehow they are on his bed, his dubious modesty lying limp on the floor like a terrycloth doormat. His bits are wedged between her strong thighs, and her hands are clinging to him hard. (He wants her to cling to him even harder). His brain had ceased to function the moment he realized she had stripped her denims and bra during the night, her body hidden by only the voluminous fabric of her jumper, a pair of utilitarian white cotton knickers and thick socks. She hums into his mouth, sucks on his tongue when his fingertips find and tease the undersides of her breasts, her hips grinding up into his almost painful erection._

_She’s so wet, he registers the sensation of damp fabric abrading his cock._

_“Hermione,” he chokes out. She gives an answering moan as he trails one hand to the edge of her knickers, bucks her hips again. He bites his tongue to stop himself from coming . . . like a fucking vir --_

_“Draco?” Theo’s face peeks through the now open bedroom door as Hermione shrieks and - uselessly - attempts to cover his naked bum with her feet._

_“Fuck, Theo! Get the fuck out of my room.” Utterly pissed off and disappointed, Draco strains to glare at the other man over his bare shoulder, lowering his torso to press against Hermione’s exposed chest._

_Wholly and obviously amused, Theo steps more fully into the room, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t be missish, Draco. I’ve seen it all before, and – honestly, mate, I’ve also seen better.”_

_“Oh dear God –” Hermione whimpers, her entire body heated and red beneath him, her voice a breathy little squeak that only succeeds in increasing his ardour. She shoves one of her fists into her mouth to stifle a moan when he_ involuntarily _rolls his hips into hers._

_Draco holds his breath for a moment before clenching his teeth and grinding out, “Theodore Cornelius Nott. You will be seeing the business end of my wand and a fucking bollocks shrinking hex if you do not get the fuck out, right the fuck now.”_

_“Have a lot of ‘fuck’ing on the brain, eh, mate?”_

_“Shut it and leave, Theo!” Hermione’s hands are now over her face, her ears a tempting cherry red, her limbs trembling. Draco is certain her mood has passed from arousal and irritation to sheer embarrassment._

_Perhaps sensing the same, Theo quickly apologizes and (finally) leaves._

As Alejandro leans forward to laughingly murmur something into Hermione’s ear, Draco struggles with a heady mix of frustration, tenderness, and _gratitude –_ frustration with the parallel memory of Theo walking in on their . . . sultry interlude a month ago (and the _repeated_ cockblocking for every passionate moment after); the tenderness is pretty much constant when he sees, hears, or thinks of Hermione; and gratitude that he is alive and free here in Capri with Hermione at his side in the home of his best mate, equally alive and free.

_And in love._

“Draco, I’m going with Alejandro to see where Harry and everyone are staying.” She’s patting the tower of hair at her crown and fiddling with the wide belt at her waist. She is a vision in soft mauve and chocolate brown. “Are you coming along as well?”

Right. Draco isn’t entirely clear how Potter, Weasel, and Longbottom had finagled an invitation to Theo’s New Year’s soiree, but he’s fairly certain the offer was made during a small “courtship announcement party” while he and Hermione stole a private moment to snog in the kitchen while their friends socialized over dinner. 

He grimaces to himself. _That_ diverting bit of passion had been interrupted as well, by Pretty-in-Pink, and the cause of much good-natured ribbing. They had – a week or so earlier – decided to take shagging off the table temporarily until Theo was safetly out of the house for good and true privacy could be had. Both agreed that had they not made such an agreement beforehand, Pretty-in-Pink’s delightedly wicked expression at catching them would have inspired them to make one. 

Draco had shuddered mightily when Hermione had wondered aloud how much worse it would have been if Potterette or Weasel had walked in just then.

He crosses his arms over his chest, displeased with how things are going. He had expected they would arrive and spend a little time _together_ , just the two of them. “Didn’t you see Potter and Weaslette yesterday? And you dragged me to the Burrow for Sunday luncheon just this past weekend.”

Her brows knit together, her mouth thinning. “I would like to see where their rooms _are_ in this mansion.” She gives an exasperated little huff. “How many rooms did Theo mention?”

“ _Trentotto camera da letto, venti bagni.”_ Alejandro, a smarmy little grin on his face, steps up behind Hermione, his pale eyes daring Draco to punch him. “Thirty-eight bedrooms, twenty baths.”

“Right. There’s no way I would be able to find their rooms on my own. I don’t want to end up disturbing guests I haven’t met yet.” They had been informed the house was full for the weekend (another reason Draco is : mostly family and friends they knew as a couple but also a number of Slytherins, some of whom Draco guessed would not be keen on the Golden Trio being in attendance. (Theo had assured Hermione repeatedly that there should be no trouble, but such platitudes obviously had not banished her concerns). 

Draco had been warned that Blaise and Pansy would be attending to the party. They had their own properties nearby and did not need lodging.

“Besides,” Hermione steps up to him, takes his hands. “I have some things I need to discuss with Ginny.”

There’s a mischievous gleam in her eye, one he has come to think of as exclusively his. “Oh?” He doesn’t care that Alejandro is right there watching them like some miniature voyeur, he wraps his hands around her waist, pulls her closer, tastes the amused curve of her mouth. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

Her body rises on her toes, and he moves to support her, his hands cradling her back. “Not bad.” She murmurs, the tip of her nose brushing his as he bends to meet her. “Just _wicked_.”

Then she’s gone in a puff of air, the ends of her hair trailing over his sleeve as she looks back at his slack-jawed expression and twiddles her fingers at him impishly as she leaves the room.

How? How had he almost given her up? How had he ever convinced himself not to fight for her? How had he been such a fucking idiotic coward? Draco is thanking his lucky stars things are as they are that he doesn’t realize Alejandro is speaking to him until the man is close and wrapping one arm around his back. “Treat her well, Senor Malfoy. Otherwise, Theo and I shall surely charm her away.” Frowning, Draco mock glares at the shorter man. He has been warned repeatedly by Theo that Hermione would make an excellent beard. His ponce of a best mate had even told the same to Potter and Weasley and the Grangers. Hermione always gives him a cheeky smirk when the subject comes up.

Her voice calls from the corridor, and Alejandro shuffles quickly, the picture of the earnest host, to guide her to her friends’ suites. 

Left alone, Draco allows the luxury of his exhaustion. His skin feels tacky with travel dust and tight with long-suppressed desire. Patting his left trouser pocket, feeling the cube-ish lump there, he returns to his suite – damn near across the villa – to bathe. 

Later, before dinner but after he is refreshed and Hermione has spoken to Ginny about the “wicked” business (which grates Draco’s curiosity to a near obsessive degree), they reconvene in Hermione’s rooms. She’s noticeably less exuberant, her shoulders sagging, her face lined with fatigue. 

“Tired?” His hands are rubbing her feet while she lays back on the expansive bed She hums softly, tipping her head forward slightly and studying him with heavy lidded eyes. 

Without a word, she shifts, moving down the bed to settle herself more fully into his lap, her arms circling his shoulders as she buries her face in his neck. He relishes the scent of wildflowers that rises from her, soaks in the sweet warmth of her. Not so long ago, she had asked him if it bothered him – her incessant need to “cling”. He had told her he didn’t mind at all; but what he hadn’t told her was that he loved that she _wanted_ to touch him, that he adored the feel of her skin on his.

“Actually, I was wondering if you would join me for a walk on the beach, just the two of us.”

He presses a kiss to her crown, soothed and content. “I would love to.” _I love you._

***

_December 31, 2000_

Studying her reflection in the full-length gilt mirror, Hermione sighs. The party is still going strong outside, music pumping through the open balcony, colored light strobing across the property wall. The scent of wood smoke and charred meat permeates the air, and she casts a little charm to keep the smell from settling into her hair and skin. 

She shifts this way and that, critically assessing her appearance, running her lightly shaking fingers through the ends of her freshly washed and charmed hair. She had chosen to forgo make-up, judging it to be a foolish gesture when – if all goes well – it wouldn’t last . . . possibly get in the way. The lingerie (approved by Ginny and Luna and Aria) had been chosen for its deceptive modesty and delicate construction. 

The mesh body suit with cami style bodice is light and airy, the sheer lavender material hiding nothing. Embroidered vines and flowers climb up the whisper of fabric in thin tendrils of green and blooms of purple, orange, and white, strategic in placement and undaunted by structural seams or flimsy bra-like cups. She licks her lips, fingertips teasing at her sides, tracing the arched hem cresting her hip and relishing the light shiver along her spine.

It is happening _tonight_. 

For over a month, she has been in a state of near-constant anticipation. Their descent into physical intimacy the morning after her exhilarating experience on the bungee, had awakened something in her, something utterly feminine and sexually fierce. It had only taken a few moments, just seconds really, and she had become addicted to the feel of him – his skin at her fingertips, the raw power of his form without the impediment of clothing, his weight pressing her down beneath – protective and dominating (though not intimidating), holding her like someone precious.

 _Her entire_ body _on fire (from arousal and embarrassment), she had sat up once Theo left and Draco reclaimed his towel (she had averted her eyes as he fetched and secured it around his bits, she’s still not sure why). After a few beats of awkward silence, she had sighed, tentatively hopped off the bed and walked around to press herself against Draco’s strong back, laying her cheek between his angel bones._

_The tension in his body released in an almost painful sound. She nosed and kissed the ridge of his spine, trying to assure him that she was there, she wasn’t going anywhere no matter how embarrassed; and that was apropos because, “Fuck, the timing’s shit, but,” he turned in her arms, his hands coming up to coax her chin up to him, “move in with me.”_

_Despite the warm feelings still coursing through her body, softening her temper and slowing her lust-fogged brain, Hermione had balked internally at the delivery rather than the request. Silently, she had debated the effectiveness of berating him for ordering her about as he pleased against the very real desire to say ‘yes’ despite a tendril of caution screaming at her to step back and really think about the implications._

_They had just cemented their courtship_ yesterday _. To date, they had only been out as a couple two and a half times. It was crazy to think of committing to cohabitation so soon._

And yet . . .

_He had appeared so certain, confident . . . steady. It was a trait she at once appreciated and shared with him, this unshakeable knowledge and drive to identify and grasp onto what they wanted; and gazing into his earnest grey eyes, seeing how much he wanted this with her, she allowed herself to admit silently that she wanted the same._

_And in that moment, other desires crystallized in her mind, her soul. She remembered how she had reacted when Ron had proposed marriage after only a handful of kisses, how she had panicked and strongly rejected the notion, how her adolescent ‘plans’ to become Mrs. Weasley had been hazy and undefined compared to this moment._

_Her flirtation with Ron had been a child’s attachment to a well-loved security blanket, a single small flame guiding her through an oppressive darkness. The love she had for Draco, in contrast, was the signal fire lighting a path to safety and contentment. There were no doubts, no reservations. She wanted – more than anything – to see him everyday, to fall asleep in his bed and wake up in his arms. She wanted to take care of him, to let him take care of her, to listen to his worries and calm his fears. She wanted to make a home with him, a place he couldn’t wait to come back to after a day at work. She wanted to cook with him and just sit with him in the evening while they read or worked or talked about everything and nothing._ She wanted . . .

_She had wrapped her arms around his chest, wanting closeness and to hide her eyes, tucking her head beneath his chin. He hadn’t pressed her for an answer, just rocked her lightly as they stood in his bedroom whilst he was only covered in towel around his hips, his hands combing gently through her sleep tangled curls._

_Hermione knew exactly what she wanted with Draco, for her future._

**_Their future._ **

_She wanted to marry him someday . . . have babies with him, grow old and make a lifetime of memories._

She absently traces one embroidered white bloom, barely covering a dark nipple, as she watches her reflection bite her bottom lip.

_Draco had seemed surprised that she had agreed so easily. They had discussed and negotiated their proposed cohabitation over a simple breakfast of toast, roasted vegetables, bacon and coffee. Theo had not been invited to share their repast._

_Hermione had posited that the move would not take place until Theo had returned to his own domicile. Draco didn’t object and added that – perhaps – they should hold off any further attempts at shagging until the same. He wasn’t keen on the possibility of an audience when they were finally bedded; and Hermione wholly agreed, though she was strongly disappointed at having to wait any longer when part of her felt as if she would combust if she didn’t have him soon._

Of course, there had been similarly intense interludes since - though none quite so . . . naked, and every one had been similarly ill-fated – usually due to Theo’s presence in the house and seeming inability to resist walking through closed/locked/warded doors without knocking first. (Though, to be fair, they had also been interrupted by her parents, Luna, baby Ottava, Teddy, Aria and Ron as well as one of Hermione’s clients and – memorably – Mrs. Malfoy at one point or another.)

She had decided that they were going to have sex during this trip as soon as she saw their suites. The beds were new. She was the first to stay in this room, the first to lay in this bed; and it was the same for Draco. After speaking to Alejandro, she was assured that – whenever she chose to make a move – Theo would be distracted for the entire night and all other guests would not venture near either hers or Draco’s suites. 

It seemed fitting to plan _the_ _night_ for New Year’s Eve. The party downstairs would allow a clandestine early departure from the festivities to shower and ready herself. Alejandro would act as her point man, alerting her when Draco excused himself or sending him upstairs when Hermione indicated she was . . . fit to entertain.

It was nearing 10:30pm when she left the party, claiming a headache from the wine (which she had not actually drunk), smoke and loud music. Draco had started to escort her into the house; but Alejandro had intercepted him, just as they had discussed. 

She had taken special care with her bath. While she wasn’t sure if Draco would be agreeable to having their first time in a room and bed away from home, the prospect of what might happen tonight had her feeling sensual and decadent. The Roman style bath was outfitted with a “waterfall” ambiance setting, and as she stood waist deep in the small pool beneath a literal fall of black licorice scented water, she felt like some mythical water nymph, exotic and naturally beautiful. 

As she eased her hands over soapy, wet skin and through the heavy mass of damp hair, the thought that it might be Draco’s hands in only an hour or so, had her nipples puckering, her skin tingling and heat pooling between her thighs. She flirted briefly with the idea of masturbating but ultimately decided to save her energy and quickly finished washing to address her hair.

Once her hair was dealt with, the curls relaxed and flowing (courtesy of Draco’s _Like Magic_ “Special Brew”), she had donned the sheer, floral negligee and now waits for Alejandro’s signal.

As soon as it comes, she will make her way to Draco’s room to wait for him there. The possibility that he might turn her away inspires a fissure of nerves that makes her slightly breathless; however, if he tells her it isn’t the right time, she will respect him and settle for just sleeping next to him. They have shared a bed since their courtship began, and she’s missed him during this trip (a whole two nights so far). 

She turns away from the mirror when her mobile trills with a message from Alejandro. _It’s time_. Her heart skips a beat, jumps against her ribcage. She twiddles her fingers one moment, runs her fingers through her hair the next. She loves him. She wants him. It’s almost painful how much. No matter what, _this is happening_. 

Her skin feels hot and itchy and oversensitive as she shrugs on a fluffy robe over the lingerie. She remembers how she had been unsure of packing the scrap of silk, vacillating between wanting to be naked when she revealed herself or wearing her little purchase. She had eventually decided that she wants the fantasy of having his hands undress her, and so here she is practically naked save for a tiny concoction of impossibly thin fabric and seducing strategic flowers. 

Tying the belt of the robe tightly around her waist, she makes her way – barefoot and quiet - through the halls toward Draco’s suite. The house is silent save for the pulsing bass outside, and she doesn’t see anyone as she navigates the massive villa. Everyone else must still be outside enjoying the celebration just as Alejandro promised.

When she arrives, her knees feel weak and unstable but she passes through his wards, the door, closing it behind her. The bed and everything is undisturbed, the room illuminated by a cheery fire in the fireplace. He hasn’t arrived yet. 

For a wild moment, she thinks of running back to her suite; but instead, pumps herself up remembering all of their kisses, his attention, his touch. She moves around the room trying to decide whether to lose the robe now or leave it on and drop it when he acknowledges her. 

Her uncertainty is not due to any sort of shyness about her body, she is simply very discriminating about who she allows to see it, when and how. Harry and Ron have seen her naked out of necessity and incident while on the run and living in an isolated little tent within an even more isolated ward field. Ginny has seen her naked because they have spent many summers sharing a bedroom. Lavendar and Pavarti have seen her naked for a similar reason. She had nearly allowed Victor to see her breasts before the third task but knew she would regret it and told him that while she was happy to be friends with him, there simply wasn’t anything there for her. But all of those cases were either unavoidable or circumstantial.

And while Draco has touched and manipulated her breasts, hips, bum, etc. on more than one occasion, he has never actually _looked_ at them. The prospect of his . . . perusal has her nerves appropriately fluttery and turning her gut. Because Brightest Witch of her Age or not, Hermione can admit that she wants Draco to be attracted to her. 

Tonight, she wants to take his breath away.

After pacing around the room (not a small undertaking), she impulsively decides to take off the robe, folding it up on a nearby chair, catching sight of the underside of her arm and the remains of her fading wound. Her heart softens, her stimulated nerves calming slightly. She doesn’t mind the slight itch of healing. 

She wonders if she should cast a contraceptive charm now or – someone is whistling Billy Idol’s “Dancing with Myself” in the hall outside. She casts about for a place to stand, to sit, _~~hide~~_ , pose? She rolls her eyes. The whistling grows louder, the door knob turns; and then he’s here, he’s rubbing his eyes tiredly – blond hair catching the fire light. Hermione holds her breath, unsure if her heart is still beating. Her hands knot together as she curls her bare toes into the new plush carpet. When he notices her, he stops. Takes her in, face unreadable. 

When he speaks, his voice is a low rasp. “What do you think you’re doing, Granger?”

She hides her disappointment and hopes she’s not wrong, that he wants her too. She thinks he does. “I should think it rather obvious, Malfoy.”

He gives her a very slow once over – so intense, she can almost feel it like the familiar brush of his fingertips. Then he’s stalking over and gripping her hips, her shoulders, combing his fingers through her hair to cradle her neck as he kisses her, hard and completely. 

“Is this a dream?” Their combined breath is heavy between them, his whisper a shiver across her mouth.

She blinks back tears because she’s wanted this for so so long and didn’t think they would ever be here. “Merlin, I hope not. I’m sick of just dreaming about you.”

He doesn’t ask her if she’s sure and neither does she ask him. There’s too much trust between them, too much respect. She’s obviously made this decision and he’s entirely too exhausted of holding back, so he does what any man would do when propositioned by the woman he loves: He takes her to bed.

***

_January 1, 2001_

The next morning, Hermione wakes to find Draco wrapped around her from behind. She sighs happily and thinks back – they made love four times during the night (and that’s what it was, she thinks, no matter the pace or level of passion, no matter how hard or fast or soft and slow he came into her, no matter how primal or amusing or romantic, every time it had been an act of love, shining from his eyes, sweetening his kiss, driving their movements and guiding their touches. 

The first time, Draco had done everything in his power to prolong the experience, kissing and touching every part of her until she was begging him to just come inside her already. It had been pressure and a little bit of a burning stretch. His thrusts were long and measured, his eyes holding hers when they weren’t joined at the mouth. She had clung to him, nails scoring down hard slabs of muscle, because her whole body was a mass of shaking limbs and – at one point – all she could do was whisper “I love you” over and over again.

She hadn’t come that time; but she hadn’t been disappointed, her body humming with a warm, pleasured buzz that filled her up with a joy so pure it sapped all of the strength in her body. All she could do was lay there, a sappy grin on her face, as Draco kissed her chin and shoulder, conjuring a wet flannel to clean the swollen, sensitize flesh between her legs.

The had slept briefly, Hermione resting against his shoulder, her arm and leg flung over him. 

They had awakened, hungry and thirsty and fed each other after donning dressing gowns and stealing down to the kitchens to gather a charcuterie board and some wine.

Something about the firelight reflected in his eyes . . . - eyes that stared at her with a hunger she felt equally in her core - had their small, lingering touches and feathery kisses escalating into full snogging and petting then tearing off their dressing gowns with Hermione’s hand on Draco’s cock and his hand guiding hers.

This somehow led to Draco’s head between her legs, his lips and tongue devouring her until she was a writhing, moaning mess.

He took her from behind that time, his hips snapping against her bum at a punishing, relentless pace that had her sobbing and babbling how it was _too good_ and _too much_ and _I can’t._

She had barely known what she was saying, her entire body was a mass of relentless sensation, her mind in a downward spiral of want and need so fierce she became almost afraid. Banked inside of her, he had pulled her up to standing on her knees, his arms banded about her as he pressed her back into his muscular chest, burying his face into her neck and sucking there. As he resumed fucking her, she arched her back and reared her head back into his hard shoulder, crying now with the terrible perfection of it all. His _beautiful, beautiful_ hand smoothed down her tummy to find her clit as he purred into her ear, _I’m right here, love. Let go and come for me._

It felt like she exploded and liquefied at once, a silent scream breaking from her lips and her muscles – coiled tight just a moment ago – gone limp. She barely felt it as Draco gentled her to lay on her stomach in a sweaty heap, his hands covering hers, their fingers woven together as she gripped the sheets like a lifeline. He wasn’t done, his cock moving inside her as he blanketed her with his body; and before she had recovered from her first orgasm of the night, he brought her to the brink again, her voice running away in a loud warbling she didn’t have the mind to be embarrassed about. She had reached back awkwardly to kiss him, their tongues meeting when their mouths couldn’t, messy and sweet. Then he shifted his hips and hit that magic spot that had her inner muscles straining to squeeze everything out of him, to hold him there, to keep him. She screamed his name as he shouted hers and that barely familiar warmth flooded inside her just before he collapsed atop her, his weight pressing her more firmly into the mattress.

But she didn’t care. She reveled in the crush of him. She hadn’t felt this safe and cherished since she was a naïve child who believed her parents could always protect her from all the bad things. 

His breath was hot in her ear as he worked to catch his breath, his voice whispering to her _so beautiful_ and _never felt like this_ and _never letting you go._

She dozed for a time beneath his bulk and roused awake again when she felt him lift off of her. He coaxed her out of the bed, helping her to the loo when she found walking to be a chore – her insides stretched and sore and feeling like her center of gravity had shifted. As she relieved herself, he ran a bath with a mixture of bath salts and scented bath oils. When the pool was sufficiently full and the water right, he deposited her into the sweet smelling, hot water, settled himself behind her and urged her to lean against him.

“Relax, love.” He said softly, kissing the side of her neck, the tip of an ear. “Let me take care of you.” She allowed herself to sink into him, closing her eyes and savoring the feel of his hands – hands she had dreamed about for way too long (the reality was so much better than anything she had imagined particularly when he stood her in front of the mirror and _ripped_ her negligee apart like tissue). He traced her face with his fingers, the line of her nose, the shape of her lips. His fingertips fell, skimming down her neck, over her shoulders – slowly – down her chest to cup her breasts in his palms. She squirmed, languid and restless. His thumbs brushed over-sensitive nipples and she groaned. He tweaked them, harder, and she gasped, weak but also electric as his amused chuckle rumbled against her back. 

He had squeezed her breasts softly; and she arched, pressing herself more firmly into his hands, loving the fact that he had gone hard against her buttocks and lower back. His hands grasped around her ribs and smoothed down her flanks, massaging into her tummy then around her hips and thighs. She was molten – her skin heated from the water and her insides melting from his touch. She whined when he bit down softly on her earlobe, his fingers running up and down her slit then leisurely circling her already swollen clit.

Slowly, he had brought her to the brink again, her hips moving with his hand, her whines and moans filling the dark bathroom with life. He murmured words of encouragement, of comfort and safety to her, turning her head and taking her mouth to distract her from breaking too soon.

But she did break and when she was shattering into a million meaningless pieces of formless undiluted emotion, he was there – holding her, surrounding her, grounding her. As she came down from the high of climax, she collapsed into him and opened her eyes. She didn’t realize she was crying until he turned her in his arms and wiped the tears away with his pruned fingertips. “Too much?” he asked, his eyes dark and blazing with concern. 

She shook her head. “So happy. I didn’t think we would get here. I thought I would have to watch you marry someone else. I . . . love –“ He didn’t let her finish, his mouth slanting over hers, his hands gripping her hips and arse with such conviction, she had known she would have bruises in the morning.

And she didn’t care.

After exiting the bath, her legs shaky and her clit pulsing a dull ache, they had dried each other amid kisses then staggered back to the bed where Draco had spread out and closed his eyes with a deep, satisfied sigh, looking as if he had fallen asleep instantly.

Hermione, meanwhile, had become instantly energized seeing him splayed so beautifully for her perusal. Quietly, she studied his nakedness in a way she hadn’t been able to before. His peaceful features had made her smile – he looked incredibly boyish with his mouth slack and lashes dark against his pale cheeks. 

Her eyes had traced over his strong chin – now covered in stubble – his neck. She had bent and licked over his Adam’s apple before sitting back on her heels to study the width of his naked shoulders, the definition there and continued into his well-sculpted arms. 

As her survey fell to the expanse of his chest, the twisting scar bisecting it, her fingers began to follow the path of her scrutiny - mapping the contours and ridges of muscle and bone, circling surprisingly pink areolas, and fluttering over the hard lines of his abs. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. He didn’t have much chest hair but there was a thin, pale happy trail ghosting her fingertips that she found irresistible.

Draco moved suddenly, grabbed her wrist. She had looked at him, every inch of her skin tingling with want. Silver and black glittered out between half-open eyelids. “What do you think you’re doing, Granger?” he said, in an echo of earlier.

She had grinned, again taking up her exploration and running the pads of her fingers over his belly button, trailing one finger through the defined v of his pubis before reaching further to cup his balls and gingerly wrap her hand around his twitching member. She kept her hand there, watching him as intently as he watched her, the air charging between them. Teeth found and scraped over her bottom lip. “I think it should be rather obvious, Malfoy.”

He growled, levering up on an elbow and reaching for her, but she had pressed her hand to the middle of his chest and pushed slightly. “I need you to lie still, right now.” She bit her lip again, suddenly unsure. What if he didn’t like his sexual partners to take charge? “If that’s okay?” 

Releasing her wrist, he reached up to curl his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her to him to kiss, deep and slow. “Consider me at your mercy, Granger,” he purred, dark and deep, the sound shivering down her spine to settle in her womb.

She was not quite brave enough yet to attempt oral, so she took his shaft in hand again, stroking slowly at first, trying to remember the tension and rhythm he had showed her earlier. As his breath quickened and his cock thickened, she licked up his chest, sucked on his nipples and left love bites where she could. 

Soon he was grabbing her hair to pull her up to kiss her again, his face and chest flushed, gleaming with sweat as his other hand guided hers to hold him a little tighter, stroke him a little faster. He came in her hand, his cry taken by her mouth. 

As they snogged, she banished the mess and lay down alongside his body, loving the way he felt against her and wondered if this was how it was for most people when they shagged the person they love. 

Neither were tired after the hand job, their kisses growing longer and deeper, consuming. Sooner than she would have expected, he was hard again and she was straddling his lap as his hands guided her to slide down his length. He had told her hoarsely that if the position proved too uncomfortable, they could stop. She glared hotly at him, though the effect was ruined when her eyes rolled back as he bottomed out. 

She couldn’t move, just sat, poised atop him, savoring the hot stretch of him, the addictive sensation of being _full_ and _connected_. 

“Fuck, Hermione.” Draco’s voice was delightfully strained, his fingers spasmed around her hips, smoothed up her waist to cup her breasts. “Move, sweetheart. Fuck me.”

Nodding, her throat tight and body trembling, she rolled her hips, experimenting with raising up and pushing down, trying different speeds and angles. Her hands came up to cover his on her breasts and somehow he let go, bringing their hands palm to palm, fingers interlocked making a bridge of arms between them. 

“Take me, love. Take everything. I’m yours.” He thrust up into her as she found a rhythm that seemed to maximize their pleasure, the beat of their bodies a counterpoint to her gasping exclamations of “oh”, “god”, and “yes” in countless combinations. She became more shrill, her movements uncoordinated and jerky until his hands finally released hers to take control, urging her even as he continued to meet her over and over again from below then taking her hands again when he was confident she could keep up.

Her hair was _everywhere_ , running down her back, sticking to her sweaty face, tickling over her shoulders. She threw her head back and pulled at her hands to card her hair back but Draco wouldn’t let her go. He kept his hold on her hands while holding her gaze, his eyes dark and fathomless.

Nothing mattered. _Nothing_. Not as long as he continued looking at her like that. Not as long as he never stopped holding her hands like this. Not as long as he was _hers_. “Mine.” She breathed, leaning down to kiss him, her tongue tasting him as if it was the first time. “Love you. Love you so much, Draco.”

He surged up to flip them over, never losing his grip on her hands. He stretched his arms so that hers were pulled above her head, pressing her hands into the mattress as he deftly took over, snapping his hips harder, faster, deeper. She had screamed his name over and over and over because it was the only thing she knew anymore, the only thing she wanted.

And then, the world imploded around her, her vision went white as her insides fluttered and gripped him as he spent himself inside her again. He stayed there, tucked and safe between her thighs as his hands released hers to frame her face, kissing her back to sanity. “Look at me, Hermione.”

Her body was a mess of spasming muscle and trembling limbs and firing neurons, and she could barely control her speech as she obeyed, looking at him hazily. “Did you mean it?”

His thumbs swept sweetly against her cheeks, traced her bottom lip. “Did I mean what?”

“That you’re mine.”

Confident, his expression was tender and strong – an image that has been burned indelibly into her memory - as he leant down to kiss the tip of her nose, peck at her mouth, pepper her cheeks. “Yes. I’m yours.” A small laugh. “I love you, Hermione Granger.” It was the first time he had said it though she had already known he did. Knowing didn’t stop the tears at hearing the words though. Knowing didn’t make the way he held her – like she was cherished and more than precious – any less meaningful. 

They had slept after that, completely exhausted. It was the best night of her life – better than getting her Hogwarts letter, better than the Yule Ball, better than passing all of her O.W.L.S., and tied with successfully returning her parents’ memories.

Now, she’s awake, sunlight filtering through the gauzy white curtains, bleaching them in a pale glow. Draco is dead to the world, his arm flung out across her hip and his face hidden behind his formerly marked arm. For a moment, she snuggles down a little closer, memorizing his features, the way his hair falls into his face and reflects the light. 

His torso is still bare – all of him is – though the sheets are twisted around his hips and legs. She licks her lips, flushes, and gathers her courage, a plan forming in her mind.

Carefully, she wedges her head against the exposed length of his neck, applying her teeth as her fingers dance across his chest, down to the sheet, tucking under the cloth and lightly dragging a nail over his flaccid cock.

It responds instantly, twitching under her fingers and beginning to swell. She watches Draco’s face, sees the corner of his mouth jump, a crinkle at the corner of his eye. Stroking him the way he taught her, she uses one hand to stimulate him while the other gently and slowly pulls down the edge of the sheet so that she can better see what she’s doing.

She takes a moment to admire the uncut glory of his penis, studying it as she has studied his hands – taking in the length, girth, color and texture of him . . . the weight and shape of his scrotum. Last night she hadn’t much of a chance to be so thorough. It was actually a surprise to her that his pubic hair is a dark shade of honey. 

Pumping his hard cock, she glances at his face. The speed and force of his breath has picked up and one of his hands is resting in the middle of his chest, fingers alternately contracting and retracting in an unknown rhythm though he appears to be still asleep.

Breathing out, she directs her attention to his cock, noting the drop of moisture leaking from the tip. She bends at her waist, working his shaft with her hand while tasting that drop with her tongue. 

Her fear instantly dissipates when Draco moans above her. Experimentally, she swirls her tongue around the head before opening her mouth and taking the tip. 

Strong fingers tangle in her hair. “Fuck, Granger. I was expecting a simple good morning and maybe a snog before another round in the bath.” He sounds breathless and she loves it, particularly when he gasps as she hollows her cheeks and takes more of him into her mouth, applying suction. She isn’t entirely sure what she’s doing, but the way his _amazing fucking hands_ curl into the sheets and her hair has her thinking that maybe she’s fumbling into something right.

The thought has her wet and ready for more though she knows she’s entirely too sore right now to entertain more sex.

Considering her inexperience, her first blow job is a shining success though she doesn’t have the capacity (nor the desire) to deep throat or gag over him. She doesn’t let him cum in her mouth. She’s simply not ready for that, and Draco doesn’t complain, his body going limp after his orgasm, his face serene and eyes closed as he catches his breath. 

She shimmies up the bed to press her body into him, relishing this quiet intimacy of just laying together skin on skin. And when his eyes open, they look a startling sea blue in the morning light, drowning her in the calm depths, giving her peace she didn’t know she needed. 

He pulls her more completely into him, his form curling to surround hers as they kiss, slow and shallow and innocently affectionate. She’s never felt loved like this and doesn’t know what to do with it, thinking maybe she doesn’t need to do anything but love him in return. 

Pressing her forehead against his, she giggles when he murmurs, “Why the fuck weren’t we doing this in school?”

“I was an insufferable swot and you were an incomparable git.”

He hums, looking thoroughly wrecked and satisfied. She feels a thrill of accomplishment. _She_ did that. “We have about an hour before we need to get downstairs for breakfast.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, indeed.”

She grins. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t mind sharing a bath again.” He kisses her forehead and starts to get up. 

“Are you up for another round as well?” He’s standing there, completely naked, looking just as comfortable as he would with a five piece suit on. 

“Mmmmm, I’m a bit sore . . . “ Unbelievably she can feel her cheeks beginning to heat up, the sensation running over her shoulders to her breasts.

The grin Malfoy aims at her then is absolutely _filthy_ , “Well then, I guess that means I’ll just have to be extra gentle.”

It doesn’t take much to convince her.

***

During breakfast, Draco could not help but note that Blaise looked vaguely guilty, Pansy seemed green around the gills but also scared, Theo was ridiculously chipper, Alejandro’s expression was that of a cat that had caught and savored a choice canary, Potter and Potterette looked as if they were turned into inferi, Luna and Longbottom were pretty much normal . . . for them, and Weasley and Pretty-in-Pink had not deigned to come downstairs (most likely making the best of their time away from the baby). He is rather certain everyone knows what he and Hermione had gotten up to last night but – out of respect for Hermione – no one is saying anything and he’s grateful. (As far as he is concerned, Hermione is welcome to be wicked any time she wants.) Her smile has not lessened all morning, shining out like a miniature sun, and he still can’t believe he put it there. 

Potter’s jaundiced eye catches his in question while Hermione dips her _fette biscottate_ into her – no doubt over-sweetened - _caffè latte_. Making sure she isn’t paying attention, he nods slightly before passing her the plate of buttery rolls.

Conversation flows stutteringly, quiet. Many at the table are still sloshed, a few are nursing hangovers even a Sober Up potion could not completely assuage, and the rest are in a love-drunk haze. Draco imagines himself in the third category, barely able to think for focusing completely on the woman at his side remembering the taste and texture of her essence, the feel of her little teeth trapping his flesh, the bite of her nails sinking into his back as her thighs –

Blaise and Pansy are erupting into an argument. He’s utterly lost as to the cause and subject though he notes, with no small amount of irritation, the concern marking Hermione’s eyes, the scrape of teeth against her lip. He is not talking to Blaise, barely acknowledging Pansy. He simply can’t forgive the slight and assault Blaise laid into Hermione in his absence; and he has been very clear with both Blaise and Pansy that he will only begin to forgive (but never forget) when Blaise has fully and honestly apologized and _Hermione_ decides to forgive.

Luna, with her absent little smile and wise little eyes, breaks into the strident accusations being thrown, “You know Pansy, Neville grows a particular root that – when steeped with a liberal amount of ginger – does wonders for alleviating morning sickness in new mothers.” Pansy, if possible, grows more pale and greenish, one hand pressing against her lower abdomen and the other covering her mouth. 

Blaise practically spit flames as he roared, “And just _who_ is the bleeding _father_???!!!! Merlin and Salazar knows you’ve whored yourself to every straight man who gave even the scantest interest.”

Even though Pansy is obviously feeling the worse for wear, she steps up to her husband and jabs and finger into his chest. “And you’ve whored yourself to every _poof_ who bats their eyes at you!!! Not to mention the women who even now may be raising your army of bastards!” She inhales as if she is going to scream some more but instead bends over and vomits all over Blaise’s – no doubt – hand-woven silk pants made from deliberately chosen silk worms from China and Testoni crafted jeweled dragon hide shoes, Draco knows, were generously priced at 5,723 galleons.

It is Hermione, who jumps up to help first, flanked by Luna and a sluggish Weaslette. Pansy’s short hair is held back as she seems to heave the contents of her entire body onto a fuming Blaise. Three pointed, intolerable glares are leveled at the infuriated Zabini and just as intolerably ignored.

Slowly, Draco joins his lover where she is wiping at Pansy’s mouth with a conjured cool flannel and whispering words of comfort and assurance. Pansy is crying, and the sight of his old friend’s tears strikes to the heart of him. He had never seen Pansy cry before, not even when things were bad under the Carrows. Not even when she was informed of her betrothal. Not even when he told her to her face that he had never loved her, that he thought they were just having fun. It’s awkward and almost unbearably uncomfortable, but he finds himself enfolding her in his arms and rocking her gently as she sobs, smelling of sick with an edge of mint.

Pansy doesn’t balk or push away from Hermione when she gentles an arm around her shoulders. She doesn’t refuse the company when Hermione steers her to the stairs with the suggestion of having a nice relaxing bath. The other ladies join them as other guests file down to break their fast, a few turning back when they see or smell the vomit painting Blaise’s shins. 

Harry and Neville say nothing though their faces tell plainly of their contempt. Draco merely crosses his arms over his chest, a pointed glower aimed at his former friend, his fists aching to take a swing at the git’s jaw. 

It is Theo who dresses him down, bellowing that _everyone is sick and tired of you and your fucking pathological superiority complex,_ and _would it kill you to act with some measure of empathy and decency for **once** in your Morgana-damned life._

When Blaise tries to defend himself, still covered in regurgitated . . . something, Alejandro catches his eye and shakes his head slowly, in warning.

Things calm down as quickly as they erupted into chaos, particularly after Blaise makes his way up to his rooms with Pansy – to change, he says, though Draco is certain there will also be an apology, probably promises of shopping and other material compensation for such public embarrassment. Hermione returns sans Luna and Pansy. Weaslette, she tells Potter, decided to return to her suite for another dose of Sober Up and a bit of a lie in. She smiles at him and blushes softly when he fairly _moons_ at her. 

They finish their breakfast quickly and beg off from more group-friend-bonding time. They are scheduled to leave in two hours, and he had mentioned wanting to walk on the beach one more time. And so they go hand in hand, it’s windy and overcast and the wet sand is cold against their feet. Eventually, he drags her to his side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she wraps both arms around his waist. They stop to watch the waves, alone at the very edge of the surf.

“Thank you for what you did for Pansy back there.”

Hermione shakes her head. “It was nothing.” Then, “She didn’t deserve how Blaise treated her.”

Draco doesn’t want to talk about Blaise. Not yet. “She’s been nothing but horrid to you since we were kids, just like me. She doesn’t deserve your kindness.”

He feels Hermione’s sigh as if it is his own, heavy and weary but also a release of sorts. “I’m tired of fighting, Draco. I’m ready to start living.”

He couldn’t agree more, tells her so. Then they are silent for long moments, sometimes walking together, and other times standing still to just appreciate . . . . _everything._

He asks her if she’s feeling okay.

“Still a little sore, but I’m confident it will be gone by tomorrow.”

He squeezes her shoulder a bit, his right hand covering her left, resting on his stomach. “That’s not what I meant.” he means her previous problems with sexuality and desire and her fears on the run.

She looks confused for a few moments before realization dawns on her face. Looking up at him, she says, “Couldn’t you tell?” Thinking of how enthusiastic she had been, how wet she had gotten, he wants to tell her of course he could but she pinches his side before he can clarify. “I mean, _I seduced you._ Maybe I should be asking if _you’re_ feeling –“

He strikes, trapping her against him and tickling her sides, under her arms. She’s laughing and trying to get away as he tussles with her, relentless. She breaks away and starts running with a squeal but his legs are long and he runs nearly every day. He catches her easily, tackles her, rolling under her to take the brunt of the fall. 

She’s laughing hysterically, fucking gorgeous and more than dear to him. He suddenly knows this is it, the moment he’s been waiting for with the sand getting under their clothes and the cold soaking through their skin. He rolls them over so he’s pinning her to the beach and her giggles soften when she opens her eyes to see how intently he’s watching her. 

“Marry me.”

She blinks up at him, wide-eyed, completely red and adorable and --, “Wh – what?”

He sits up, pulling her with him, his thighs bracketing her knees. Strangely, he isn’t at all nervous as he expected to be. There is only a soul-deep serenity that this is natural and right and timely. “Marry me.”

Her eyelashes are batting furiously, an unusual look for her. He is only too aware of how off guard she is, how confused and frantic. Yet, he can’t feel at all sorry. This is what he wants, and a Malfoy always --, “Is this – Are you asking me because I slept with you?”

Her voice is squeaky and shy, almost minimized like she is distrustful and afraid of his answer. He doesn’t _entirely_ blame her. He had – after all – admitted to being a selfish, unscrupulous lover in the past. “You know my history, I’ve slept with seven different women, three of them as a result of serious relationships. I’ve been engaged to an eighth. I am yet unmarried.”

She swallows, her eyes gleaming a bit with excess moisture. “I’m sorry, I . . . We’ve never discussed this before so –“

He suppresses a smile as he gets to his feet and hands her up beside him, knowing just how much the lack of discussion and debate rattle her. “Then we’ll discuss it now.”

She bites her bottom lip and shivers with a particularly chill breeze. “Please don’t be upset with me for being shocked.”

He’s not, but he doesn’t want the most important subject derailed. “Do you want to marry me?”

She stares at him, the sound of waves crashing around them, frigid ocean water licking lightly at their toes. A small shrug, arms akimbo. “We’re so young.”

Time to be absolutely clear and seal this deal. “I’m not asking for a wedding tomorrow. I am asking if you want to marry me, period. It could be ten years from now. I don’t care. But I want that promise. I need it. I love you, Hermione. It’s always going to be you. Do you want to marry me?” Somehow, he had stepped into her space as he spoke. Somehow his hands are cradling her face. Somehow his voice is shaking as he (crazily) happily puts his heart and soul on the line for her to bless or curse with a word.

Her gaze never strays from his, her breath tangling with his between them as tangibly as his fingers in her hair and her hands in his shirt. As always, she is his brave lioness, chin up, mouth set, and voice steady. “ _Yes_.” 

He closes his eyes, savoring the syllable, the connotation. “Good. That’s . . . What else do you want to talk about?”

She gapes, exasperated, though her hands still hold him close just as his thumbs still graze her cheeks. “We haven’t even been dating for very long.”

At this, he grins. “I beg to differ, we’ve been dating since that first Tuesday luncheon . . . with Pretty in Pink.”

“Who’s Pretty In Pink?”

“Weasel’s wife.”

“Aria?”

“That one.”

She’s shaking her head, but he catches the bright smile on her lips, that suspicious glimmer in her eyes. “You were engaged almost that entire time.”

He scoffs, taking her hand as they begin to walk again. “Doesn’t change the fact that we were dating, and I’m actually being rather generous as I tend to think our first date happened that first night you asked me to dinner and cooked for me.”

“You and my dad,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes.

He cranes his head, contemplating the overcast sky. Sometimes, rare though they may be, it is worth it to make yourself vulnerable. “Standing next to you, doing dishes that night, I wasn’t prepared for the feelings I discovered for you.” 

Draco doesn’t need to see her to know she’s blushing. The heat of it warms his hand where it connects with hers. “We argue all of the time.” 

A snort. “And we’ll make up all of the time. If it makes you feel any better, I have already projected what our first major tiff will be about.”

“Oh.” The glimmer becomes a sheen as she giggles brokenly. “Did you?”

Pulling her close again (because, honestly, he wants her close always and doesn’t see why he should deprive himself when she wants to be close just as much), he plays with her hair, the hem of her jumper. “I will – of course – be the instigator. We will disagree on the amount of hours you spend at work and working from home. I will be adamant about supporting a _reasonable_ schedule and you will insist that everything you do is necessary and valuable. I won’t dispute the second bit but the first . . . My point will be that our family is necessary, respect for our relationship is necessary. I am a jealous, attention seeker, Hermione. I crave your attention; but I will never get in the way of your career – especially not when I have invested in it to the degree that I already have. I will tell you, calmly, that your happiness and our marriage is my first priority and ask that we institute a house rule of working ten hours a day tops and leaving work at work.”

She watches him warily, “Do you mean to actually play this out now?”

“Of course not. We should allow the stress and tension to develop naturally. That way the make-up sex will happen organically.”

Hermione’s laugh is high and tittering and echoed by seagulls searching for breakfast. “Oh Merlin.”

Draco grins down on her, feeling soft and warm in the middle. “Any other objections?”

In a small voice that he hates because it’s a reflection of things that make her feel small, she asks, “What about your father? Blaise? Other friends that you have that might –"

He cuts her off, “As someone once told me to great effect: Lucius will not be part of my marriage. He is no longer a part of my life. As far as I am concerned, he is dead. As for Blaise and Pansy: they don’t like you, that’s their problem. If they or anyone else don’t approve, it has no bearing on what I want. And what I want is you. Fuck Hermione, I’ve wanted you since that first dinner in your kitchen and you looked up at me with those bright, beautiful eyes and that shy little smile to say, “This is uncomfortable.”

The moisture gathered in her eyes overflows to trail down her face. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

This time, he digs into his pocket, lowers to one knee in the sand, and gazes up at her, offering all of his affection and desire and wishes for the future along with the ring in his hand. “I love you, Hermione Granger. To me, you are the sun that illuminates my days, the moon that reveals my path in the dark, and the stars that guide me home. Marry me.”

She tackles him, wheezing a succinct and shattering. “Yes.”

“Yes?” He murmurs against her lips, not really needing the assurance but wanting it nonetheless.

“I love you, Draco Malfoy. So much.” She whispers into his mouth, one more time. “Yes.”

***

_February 6, 2003_

The box sits atop the main room coffee table, taunting.

“You know, glaring at an inanimate object will do nothing but give you wrinkles, love.” Richard advises jovially from his seat on the couch, looking for all the world as if the box _isn’t_ giving airs.

Helen shifts her glare to him as she paces in front of the box.

He snickers, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Never mind me, dear. Glare away to your heart’s content.”

Imagining red lasers flashing out of her eyes, Helen wishes fervently that the box would erupt into flames.

_No._

Erupt into flames but only the exterior material. The contents would be left pristine.

She throws up her hands and increases her pace. “Where _is she?!”_

The fireplace comes alive with green swirling tongues of fire just as a knock sounds at the front door.

Helen and Richard look at each other. Shrugging, the man rises to answer the door just as Narcissa Malfoy steps quickly out of the fireplace. Helen stops pacing for a bare moment to watch the blonde woman practically run the five feet into the room to kiss her cheeks and take her hands.

“Where are they?” Narcissa’s face reminds of a little girl on Christmas morning, eyes shining and teeth flashing.

Helen squints off to the side. “Is that a hickey???”

A well-manicured finger presses against painted lips and pale, pale skin. Helen rolls her eyes before pointing to the box.

“Heavens!” Molly explodes through the door when Richard swings it open. She pauses breathlessly to spare a hello to the man of the house before bee-lining to the other two women. A round of hugs and kisses commences while Richard retakes his seat and just watches everything unfold. “I would have been here minutes ago but Ottava had stuck herself to my leg and Ginny is just a fountain! A _fountain_ of retching!!! And oh how she wails so! All of the time but you know I don’t mind watching after her a bit while Harry is away, you know. Dear Harry.” Here she shakes her graying red head, “He’s ever so stressed, of course? So worried for my girl. He calls on the mobile constantly and floo calls between.” She purses her lips. “Driving Arthur and I absolutely batty.” A deep breath and then, “Well, then? Where are they?”

Helen, who had been trying (and failing) to suppress her amusement at Molly’s verbal tangent, points to the box.

Both Molly and Narcissa stare at it for long moments. 

“Cheeky little box, isn’t it?” Molly mutters.

Narcissa sniffs. “Quite.”

Richard snickers at all of them then, “Will Arthur be joining us, Molly?”

“Oh goodness, no. He’s minding Ottava and Ginny. Aria hasn’t been feeling well, the poor dear. I remember how I was with the twins –“ here there is a little catch in her voice as it always did when she mentioned the twins or just Fred, her grief an ever-present thing. “She needed a little break.” She scowls, “And Ronnie had best be taking good care of her or I’ll box his ears.”

Narcissa hides her smile behind delicate fingers. Helen laughs. 

“Well, then, as we are all here, shall we open it?” Richard sits forward, elbows on knees. Then for Molly’s benefit, “Hermione and Draco gave us permission as they’re currently in New York for business.”

Helen moves to grab the box when Molly stops her. “I just wanted to thank you – all of you – for including Arthur and me in all of this. Hermione is more than just special to us, and Draco is such a dear, truly.” She conjures a pink handkerchief, pressing it into Narcissa’s hand when she spies tears swimming in the woman’s ice blue eyes. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Helen smiles, wiping away her own tears with a tissue. “Your names may not be on the cards, but you and Arthur are just as much Hermione’s parents as Richard and me.”

There is much loud sniffing and little hiccups.

Helen sighs when she feels the weight of Narcissa’s head leaning on her shoulder. “In his first year, Draco wrote to me about Hermione,” the austere lady begins, “He begged me to ask Lucius if we could possibly break the betrothal agreement with Astoria so that he could have a “chance” with her.” A tut, “Lucius made inquiries and found out –”

“That Richard and I are muggles.” Helen’s tone is factual, no nonsense, but there is an undercurrent of hurt that will never really go away for the trials Hermione experienced for no other reason than her parentage.

Narcissa nods silently, continuing after a beat. “He wrote to Draco, told him to stay away from her . . . encouraged him to hate her. I’ve often wondered the last few years how different things would have been if Draco had not been so obedient.”

Privately, in a twisting sort of strange, Helen thinks it is probably fortunate that Hermione was not distracted by Draco during her school years, the struggle against Voldemort . . . the war. She may not have survived had her mind been on romance; and if Draco had broken with his family, he would not have been there to deny Harry’s identity when they were captured. “It’s funny. Hermione also wrote to me about Draco during her first year. Predicted she would marry him.”

Molly titters that she would love to see that letter as Narcissa laughs – a tinkling sound that Helen is now accustomed to hearing but still strikes her as rich and warm from such a cold-looking woman.

Shaking his head with a warm smile, Richard grabs the box and cuts through the packaging tape with his Swiss Army pocket knife. The ladies peer into the now open box only to find themselves looking at another (this one a pale blush) box.

Richard carefully removes the second box, and Narcissa takes it from him, opens the folded lid, gasps with a little teary, “Oh.”

The wedding invitations are lovely – blush, fine grained stationary with a flourish of gold filigree. They are stacked at the top with the envelopes stacked just beneath. Narcissa and Helen are struck quite speechless.

“Just lovely.” Molly murmurs, the pads of her fingers tracing over the printed words:

_Drs. Richard and Helen Granger_

_With Lady Narcissa Malfoy_

_Invite you to the share in the joy_

_As their children,_

_Hermione Jean Granger and Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy,_

_Celebrate their marriage_

_On Saturday, the Twenty-ninth of March_

_Two thousand and Three_

_At six o’clock in the evening,_

_Hampstead Garden Suburb Library_

_15 The Market Place, London, NW11 6LB._

_Dinner and dancing to follow._

_Black-Tie Optional._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:
> 
> Alejandro is based on my cousin and his husband, a flashy amalgamation if you will. Please do not think that is the way I think all gay men are. It just so happens THEY are like this and happen to be gay men. Just as I happen to be a gay woman who only writes het fanfiction. 
> 
> Buonjourno: Good day / Hello in Italian  
> Principessa Leone: Lion Princess in Italian  
> fette biscottate - rusks in Italian (it's like a breakfast dish - bread covered with egg then fried)  
> caffe latte - espresso with milk 
> 
> AND NOW THE SNEAK PEAK for my next (non-KUWTG) Dramione fic!!!! (I hope this works):

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT? Is that . . . angst I smell???? Maybe a little bit . . . Yearning? Pining? Hell yeah. This is a slow burn, my darlings. Before H and D can get it together, they have a LOT to straighten out.
> 
> Chapter notes!
> 
> The outting and reader card to the Bodleian libraries is courtesy of a suggestion by Winemom13. THANK YOU!
> 
> The Bod = The Bodleian libraries: Main research library of Oxford University. In the year 2000, several of OU's libraries were brought together for administrative purposes under the umbrella name of the Bodleian though the Bodleian library is the largest component. Oxford students and affiliates may borrow certain materials; however, the public is not allowed to even view materials unless they have a reader card. A reader card can be obtained after providing certain information about your research needs but once attained, you can only view materials within the library, you cannot borrow or take out materials.
> 
> PTSD, anxiety and depression can all suppress libido.


End file.
